


Diamonds for Princes

by LaughingStones



Series: Unexpected Diamonds [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Aphrodisiacs, Breathtaking levels of Strider and Makara idiocy, Bro and Kurloz being Really Fucking Bad at this shit, Caretaking, Certain People in the troll government are trying to fix this injust shit, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, No Sex, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, The Internet is the Source of All Knowledge, but it's an uphill battle, but said knowledge includes some really dumb ideas, hemocaste flip, mostly offscreen masturbation, pov switching, trolls & humans & carapaces all live together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 08:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5779486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingStones/pseuds/LaughingStones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What the fuck,” Dave says. "Care to explain why you’re carrying around a gigantic naked unconscious troll?”</p><p>---<br/>In which two people unsuited in oh so many ways for <i>any </i>interpersonal relationship strike up a moirallegiance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Non-con occurred offscreen just previous, the character reacts with anger but is pretty distracted from it by current issues.

Leaning against the wall of the alleyway, you hitch your burden up on your shoulder and try to catch your breath. Holy fuck, he’s heavy. You’re streets away from where you started and you don’t think anyone saw which way you went, but you can’t be sure, someone might be catching up and you can’t flashstep nearly as well carrying this much weight. You’d like to set him down for a moment, rest enough to be able to fight if necessary, but Dave should arrive any minute now and he’s honestly your best chance.

You’re just pulling out your phone to check the time when a familiar truck goes by the mouth of the alleyway and stops in the middle of the road. Thank Christ. Adjusting your shades with your free hand, you leave the alleyway.

Dave steps out of the truck, flashy red waistcoat completely out of place in this part of town. You can’t help the tiny smirk tilting your mouth up when he sees the guy on your shoulder and his pokerface goes to shit.

“What the fuck,” he says. “Guess this explains why you wanted a blanket. So, care to explain why you’re carrying around a gigantic naked unconscious troll?”

“They were having a sale. Couldn’t resist picking one up.” If your deadpan is a little strained, you’ll put it down to the weight.

“Hope you kept the receipt,” he mutters. He hands you the blanket, which you throw over your involuntary companion before starting to manhandle him into the truck. There’s not quite enough space, you have to fold him up a bit before he fits, and you hope he’s not too uncomfortable. His long twisting horns are particularly awkward to situate. You really fucking hope the submission reflex doesn’t wear off before you get where you’re going. “No seriously,” Dave insists, getting back in the driver’s seat. “What the fuck, Bro? We’re gonna have to wash that blanket, he’s kind of...dripping.”

“Yeah, I’m aware.” You climb in on the other side and Dave is driving before you’ve even closed the door. Nice that he’s clear on the urgency of the situation.

“So what, you’re starting a new career in abducting porn actors? Or is his bulge being out a total coincidence? And why the hell is he out of it, he’s a purpleblood, do you have any idea what kind of a mess it’s going to be if he wakes up on us here?”

“Yes, Dave, I’m pretty clear on that. I'm assuming he’ll figure out who was on his side in this whole debacle and not flip out on us.”

Dave shoots you a sideways glance. “I’m gonna take a wild guess and say no new partner for the puppet porn biz today.”

“That would be a fair assumption.”

“Goddammit, Bro, if you don’t spill I swear--”

“He flipped out on set, someone grabbed him by the horns, he went down," you say flatly. "I figured fine, he’s out of a job it looks like he didn’t want anyway. Then they were going to keep filming.” Your lips tighten. “He's low caste, it's not like anyone else would care. So I took out all the lights in the studio, grabbed him and left. Needless to say, I didn’t have time to locate his clothes first. Or save my hat when it got knocked off.”

“There’s a fucking tragedy. This guy better be worth it if you lost your hat for him, I mean that’s like a third of your swag right there.”

“Nah, just a little irony. Maybe you depend on your accoutrements for your swag, but mine is inherent to my being.”

By the motion of his head, Dave is rolling his eyes at you behind his shades, and you smirk a little. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to do dumbass things to save people’s asses,” he says, “I’m the Knight, right? You’re a Prince, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Eh. Figured I’d take a page out of your book for a change. Cut out the page, made some creative edits, scrawled some notes in the margins, owned it.”

“Pasted the words ‘DUMBASS STUNTS’ across the text, more like. Goddamn, Bro.” He’s quiet for a while, eyes on the road, then says, “You think he’s safe to take home?”

“You got a safer place to stick a naked, incapacitated coolblood while the reflex wears off? There’s two of us and one of him; we’ll be fine.”

“I just hope when he gets out of it he's not still jolly and squirming, because I don’t know about you but I personally had a packed schedule tonight without any xenological sex shenanigans included.”

“What’s wrong, you don’t feel like being the schoolgirl meeting her first tentacle monster?” The quip comes automatically, but now that you think about it it’s weird that your rescuee’s bulge was still out. As far as you know the submission reflex should counter a troll’s libido. He was pretty revved up, though, maybe that’s why it’s taking longer to cool him down. 

“It’s too early for my birthday-- what the hell is that smell?”

Your mouth quirks up slightly on one side. “I do believe those would be troll pheromones.” It’s not an unpleasant smell, kind of like cinnamon, but a little overwhelming in these close confines.

“Fucking fantastic, so after this my truck’s going to smell like ‘come and get it’ to entirely the wrong species. Dammit, when I say pimped out ride, this is not what I mean.”

Yeah, he may be complaining, but you’re the one with cinnamon-musky purple slime on one shoulder. That’s going to leave a stain.

By the time you reach the apartment building, the troll’s recovered enough to twitch a little and when you glance back to check on him, his eyes mostly track your movement. He’s making a weird noise, a kind of clicking, growling whine that grates and rasps against your nerves. Judging by the orangey glow to the yellows of his half-open eyes, he’s not much happier making it than you are hearing it. He may be twitching, but he’s not nearly together enough to be any help as the two of you maneuver seven feet of limp troll out of the truck and up nine floors to your apartment. That’s assuming he would want to help you in the first place; you’re pretty sure he doesn’t trust you and you can’t exactly blame him.  

Finally you get him through the apartment door and wrestle him onto the shitty sofa, where his feet hang off the end. With the blanket wrapped under him you can hope he won't drip through it, but it's not like those cushions are a bastion of cleanliness to start, so no big either way. Dave lets out a long breath and goes into the kitchen muttering to himself. He comes back out with a bottle of AJ and tilts his head at you.

“So what’s the plan? ‘Cause I got a soundtrack to tweak but if you need me to stick around -”

“Nah, go make sick beats. I’ll kick down your door if there’s trouble.”

He snorts, shrugs, and heads past you for his bedroom. “Your call, Bro.”

You sigh and rub your hands over your face under your shades. Yeah, your call. This was all your call. What the fuck are you doing? It’s not like you’re a teenager anymore; these days you can handle life running over the tidy plans you make. Doesn’t mean you have to be gracious about it though. You were going to go in there, throw out some numbers, and hopefully get your content up on a wider network. Instead, you’ve got a bunch of new enemies and an out-of-work, highly distressed troll porn actor on your sofa.

Speaking of whom, he still looks pretty out of it, but that growl is a lot steadier now. There’s a twitch under the blanket where one hand is, and another where - huh, his bulge is still out. Yeah, that should definitely be tucked away by now. What is the deal with this guy?

He should be able to talk soon, so you duck into your room to change your shirt while you’ve got time. What you really want is a shower, but that’s going to have to wait.

When you get back he’s still lying there loose-limbed and slack under the blanket, but his narrowed eyes are fixed on you. Sitting down on a stool a careful distance away from him, you give him a nod and wait. You’re pretty sure that rumbling sound isn’t a purr, and it seems like a good idea not to crowd or press a giant troll when he’s already edgy.  

It’s a few minutes before he speaks, but then his growl spikes and rattles under his words. “Well, motherfucker, here you wanted me and here I up and be. Now what?”

You give him a minimal shrug. “Depends on what you want. You can borrow some clothes and I can take you to your place or a safe location of your choice, or drop you back off at the studio if I misunderstood something and that’s where you need to go. You’re the one that seemed to be getting the short end of the stick back there, so whatever you need.”

His growl breaks up and goes choppy and after a second you realize he’s laughing, the angriest most mirthless laughter you’ve heard in a while. “Little enough motherfucking good that will do me, any of it. Ketradax they gave me, shoved it down my gullet. No safety for me while that lasts.”

Behind your shades you blink and stare at him. Well shit, that explains why his bulge is writhing around underneath the blanket and beginning to stain it purple. “What the hell, your contract allows that?”

“What motherfucking contract?” he snarls.

“The contract I assume you signed to work for them as an actor. I assume they wouldn’t hire you without some kind of contract, although granted I haven’t done much work with troll studios.”

“No contract and no hiring had I, all taken unawares by their atrocious wicked mind-bender,” he hisses. His lip curls to bare fangs before he closes his eyes for a minute. Then he takes a breath and says more steadily, “Two of my buyers get their work on in that place and I was all to be closing some deals tonight. Then one of their pail players showed absent without warning and they had the _heinous gall_ to up and ask at me if I’d earn some _fame_ and get at being a temporary fill.” His fangs are showing again, and as he keeps talking his eyes are shading distinctly more orange. “Well and clear I made it that I had no need or desire to be doing such a thing, until the motherfucking mind-bender started in and spoke words of agreement out my mouth as I had no thought to do." A seesawing whine picks up in his voice, winding through the rumble underneath and making your skin prickle. "All docile I was made to be, all _motherfucking placid_ until they gave me the drug, and then I had no thought to be fighting until it went too far and pain recalled me to myself.”

Okay, wow, you're no stranger to the less than salubrious details of night-to-night troll interaction, but this is worse than you expected. Unfortunately, you can also see how they expect to get away with it. If this guy is a typical small-time dealer, it’s unlikely that he’d have the kind of connections that would protect him, and in this city his bloodcolor sure as fuck won’t do it. Maybe in the capital, with First Minister Signless preaching equality to the masses, he’d have some sort of recourse, but not here.

“Goddamn, dude, that is sicknasty levels of disturbing. Like, legitimately off the chart levels of gross and wrong.” Too bad you didn’t get there sooner, that mind control shit doesn’t work on humans. You shake your head. “So you can’t go home,” right, if the pheromones give any neighbors the wrong idea, he’s in no shape to fight them off for long, “and you sure as fuck can’t go back to the studio. I assume you got no kismesis or matesprit or you’d have mentioned-- ”

“Nor would I take this to them if I did, this unnatural, coercive motherfucking trickery, all to shattering reason and control till every thought’s on pailing.” The snarl under his words has changed pitch, taking on a keening edge, and his voice sounds breathier. Dude’s in bad shape, and not getting any better.

“Moirail?”

He huffs out a brief laugh that actually sounds genuine this time. “No diamond to my name, and none I’m like to find. No pale-bait, I.” You would swear he’s totally sincere, even sounding like he can barely keep from moaning aloud.  

“Dunno about that, bro,” you drawl. “You’re looking pretty pitiful from here.” Wait, shit, did you just hit on him? Shit, you did, that was totally a pale come-on. Well, everybody knows humans are easy in the pity quadrants. 

Purple eyes go sharp on you, sweep over your face before he snorts. “You hornless could get at pitying the moon and stars if it pleased you.”

“Moon and stars, huh? Good to know low self-esteem is not one of your issues.”

Fangs gleam in a brief smirk. “That it is not-- MotherFUCK! Time, what’s the fucking time all to being?”

You check your phone. “One-twelve am. You got somewhere to be?”

He shifts under the blanket and after a moment pulls one arm free, shaky and uncertain but at least under his control. Clawed fingers dig into his hair and pull as he hisses to himself. “Can’t, I can’t go, he can’t get on his view of me like this, but it was meant to be a short run, I should’ve been back by now. Wiggler will have anxiety all up in him, wiggler does worry when he’s left alone--”

“Wiggler?” you say sharply. “You’ve got a wiggler in your hive?”

Going still, he looks at you for a moment before answering. “Descendant. Sign-kin to me and chosen clade, I took him from his worthless, wastrel, careless, cowardly lusus as never stayed to watch over him. Brought him to live safe with me.”

What you want to say is Holy shit, _what?_ but you keep it behind your teeth. “Shit, how old is he?" you ask instead. "Is he safe to be left on his own?” As far as you know, trolls do occasionally have descendants in their own lifetimes, but they certainly don’t hunt them down to come live with them. By the sharp eye he’s got on you, your guest is well aware the situation is abnormal and he’s wary of your reaction. For the kid's sake, not his, you're pretty sure.

“Eight sweeps,” that’s _way_ older than a wiggler, what the fuck? “and safe enough if he’s given warning, but I left no word.” He’s tugging at his hair again, restless, fangs partly bared. His hips shift underneath the blanket, and shit, if he’s not leaving stains on the sofa yet he will be soon. “If I don’t make return as what I said I would,” he pauses to breathe a minute; the whining snarl he’s making keeps edging closer to a moan. “--He’ll get the fear all on him and thought could enter his pan to go back to the slime again. Hard enough it’s been to wean him off it once.”

Damn, you thought you knew something about elliptical speech, but this dude is opening your eyes to vast new expanses of linguistic fuckery. “Are you saying he sleeps too much?”  

“He eats sopor is what I’m all at telling you.”

...So, essentially he’s got a little bro with a substance abuse problem. You think of Roxy and then stop yourself. She was never your responsibility, and she pulled herself out of it on her own anyway. Hells of impressive, that girl, you love her unironically. “Alright, so your little dude needs a chill word dropped his way that something’s come up and you’ll be home late. If you want to give me his handle I’ll message him.”

That is not a friendly look he's giving you. Apparently he has not yet been overwhelmed with bountiful trust of your person. You raise your eyebrows enough he can see them over your shades and tilt your head meaningfully. “Dude. Be reasonable. How the hell is it gonna hurt your bro to have me know his handle?”  

“Not a thing I can get at knowing,” he growls at you, and then gasps and shudders. Looks like he's losing ground, feeling the drug more insistently the more the submission reflex wears off.

“How long ago did they give you the Ket?” Pulling out your phone, you look up the usual dosage and duration of Ketradax.  

“Motherfucking-- ahhh-- hour ago.”

Aw, shit. This is looking less than fun for everyone involved. You tighten your lips, looking up at him. “Sorry, dude, looks like you’ve got another one to three hours of entertainment ahead of you here at Casa del Strider.”

Goddammit, you could happily go a long time without seeing an expression like that again. Before his face closes off from you he looks gutted. Then it shuts down and he just goes lethally blank. “And you’d have me entertain belief that you’ll be all to offering me motherfucking sanctuary in your own hive and no hidden cost?”

The statement was out of your mouth before you really thought about it, but honestly what else are you gonna do? Drop the guy naked and drugged on a random street corner?

Because you’re an asshole, you pretend to consider, which also serves to hide your reaction when you realize what "hidden cost" he’s expecting. Yeah, no. You’ve committed your share of morally reprehensible acts in the past, but hell if you’re taking advantage of some poor roofied bastard. “Hmm. Yep, that’s about the shape of it. Chrissake, it’s not like I asked what you could do for me before I rescued you. Human, pale for everything, remember?”

He glares at you a minute, then closes his eyes. “TerminallyCapricious is up and being his handle. Tell him… some unexpected business rose up on me but I’ll be at returning by dawn. Tell him keep the faith, I’ll play him no motherfucking goat’s tricks, and he’s to find his meals in the thermal hull.”

“Got it.” You’re careful to use his phrasing exactly, just to reassure the kid it’s really him and this isn’t some kind of scam, even if you’re curious as hell what exactly “goat’s tricks” means. A moment later an answer comes back in purple text that flips case like a juggling typesetter. 

“‘Ok, bro,’” you read out loud. “‘Got no problem up at that, but can a motherfucker be hearing your voice?’”

“Motherfuck, NO,” the troll on your sofa snarls. He’s breathing hard and his voice is shaking, so you can understand his dismay at the idea. “Send him this: Wiggler, sit your ass the fuck down, study your schoolfeeds, and keep your mirth on as blessed Messiahs do decree, I got no time to be calling at you.”

Blessed Messiahs? Holy shit, that’s what he meant by “keep the faith”; he and his descendant are members of the old subjugglator cult. The religion itself was only recently decriminalized and most of the trappings are still hells of illegal, so making reference to it around you when he doesn't even trust you ain’t exactly the smartest choice. Assuming it’s just one more sign of how out of it he is, you keep your mouth shut and tap out his response.

A minute after you send the message, your phone chimes with the kid’s reply. “Ok, he sent you a sad face, so he’s either fucking adorable or a little smartass, followed by: ‘Why you ain’t being to type yourself? Wrong color, no motherfucking quirk, I’m all manner of confusion on it.’”

He snorts. “Oh, all confusion, is he? Scheming little brat, suspicion is what’s on him, and little wonder for it.” Purple eyes narrow, fixed on your shades. “So? There a reason I can’t be up and typing for myself?”

That’s... a difficult question. Of course there’s a reason you’re typing for him; you’re not comfortable with it any other way. He doesn’t trust you, and however bad his situation, you don’t entirely trust him either. You’d definitely prefer to know exactly what he’s saying, and to whom, on your phone, while in your apartment. Unfortunately, it has become apparent that your attitude reeks more strongly of hypocrisy than a conservative carapace politician sneaking into an all-species strip joint. You’ve got all the power here, and he’s pretty much at your mercy.

Shrugging a shoulder, you breathe out and lean over to offer him the phone. “Nah, not really. Feel free.”  

His arm is steady this time when he reaches out to take it, and if his breath keeps hitching and catching with tiny noises in his throat, his fingers are nimble enough. For several minutes he messages back and forth with his descendant, mumbling to himself and smiling a little once or twice. Finally he hands you back your phone and you scroll up to read over their conversation. Yeah, it's nosy, yeah, you're a control freak, whatever - you’re out of your depth here and it only makes sense to be careful.

Unexpectedly, they’re cute, aside from the bizarre typing quirks. There’s clearly affection between them, and from the small amount you can glean from a five minute conversation, your guest makes a genuine effort to be a good substitute lusus to his descendant, who is transparently concerned about the situation but trusts him enough to believe his reassurances. (All of which are true, if cleverly avoiding mention of most of the pertinent details. Dude would rather refuse to answer than lie to this kid, which you can’t help but find interesting.) The kid’s name is Gamzee, apparently, which reminds you of the obvious courtesy you’ve overlooked.

“Bro Strider, by the way.” You got out of the habit of handing out your given name a long time ago, and no one uses it anyway except Dave when he's really pissed off.

Your guest looks at you a long moment before he answers. “Kurloz Makara.”

“Cool. So hey, it sounded to me like you’re not gonna feel safe much of anywhere, but if I got that wrong and there’s any place you’d rather be than here, I’ll get you there. At least at Chez Strider no trolls are going to be coming around to investigate the pheromone situation, though. I figure you can hole up in my room for the next little while if you want, I’ll get you a bucket or a basin or something, you can take care of business and I’ll be out here when you’re done and ready to go.”

He’s staring at you. His eyes look much darker than they did to start with, his pupils blown huge, and his cheeks are flushed purple. “And it’s all to being that motherfucking simple.”

Goddammit, you’re fucking this up. You ran right over the part where you’re giving him a choice without letting him answer, of course he doesn't believe you. When it comes to being a thoughtless dick, you are simply the best there is. Defaulting to habit because what the fuck do you say, you stare back, deadpan through your shades. “Sure, dude. Why not?”

After another long pause, he shakes his head. “Motherfucking hornless, who’s to even understand them.”

All right, Strider, try it again, and get it right this time. “So, think you’ll go ahead and stay here?” 

His eyes flick over your face again, calculating, evaluating your motives. Your poker face is undisturbed, but you hope that the careful looseness of your limbs comes across as unthreatening at least. Open and friendly is probably too much to ask for from your body language.

He does seem to relax after a moment, so maybe it worked. “Seems as how I will.”

“All right. Next question up; are you hurt?” That wins you a flat stare and no response, so you take pity (hah) and elucidate. “Not like I was paying close attention back there before everything went to shit, but from what I saw, they weren’t exactly being gentle with you.” 

“And if I said as I was, would you be all at tending my wounds?” His tone is surprisingly biting, considering the rattling, hitching keen that runs under the words.

Right, boundaries are a thing people have. It may seem dumb as shit to you that even asking about it is too close to quadrant territory as far as trolls are concerned, much less the implied offer of assistance, but that doesn’t give you a right to ignore his preferences. Obviously it should’ve occurred to you that he might respond just as badly to being taken advantage of in a pale way as any other, but somehow that angle escaped you. You were just trying to be a good host. Aggressively. 

...Again, for the people in the back; you’re a dick.

“Nah, bro,” you say, hitching one shoulder up in a lazy shrug, “not unless you wanted the help.”

Slowly, he relaxes again. “Can’t get any certainty on it, being as the ache’s too widespread to know what’s want and what’s true hurt, but nothing worth to speak of.”

“Got it. Just let me know if you need anything, and in the meantime, can you walk?”

Taking a deep breath, Makara struggles up into a sitting position, sways once and catches his balance. That cinnamon scent wafts towards you with his movement. He grabs the damp and purple-spotted blanket and keeps it around his waist as he carefully pushes himself to his feet. Eyes on the ceiling, he cautiously straightens to his full height and his horn tips nearly brush the plaster.  

You haven’t actually seen him standing before. Everyone knows adult coolbloods are huge, but you don’t usually have them at such close range. He’s most of a foot taller than you, and that’s not counting the horns or even the wild mane of hair.

He’s shaking. Barely enough to notice, but you can see the control that goes into steadying his limbs, see the tension in his jaw and the faintly purple sweat beading on his face. It’s weird to see such a big, plainly dangerous dude looking so wrecked. It makes you feel odd and a little bit sick.

“Hey, how old are you?”

...Where the hell did that come from? What the fuck does it matter how old he is? Like this whole situation would be any better if he was some weathered old guy.

Although he’s not. Now that you’re looking, you notice that there aren’t many scars on the dark gray skin of his chest and arms, and given the evidence, you’re pretty sure he’s not the kind of guy to live a safe and harmless life. Either he's hella younger than he looks or he pupated recently enough that he hasn't had much time to build a new scar collection on the fresh new skin.

From the look on his face, he’s just as puzzled by the question. “Eighteen sweeps all up on me.”

Alright, so his second pupation wasn’t exactly yesterday - but it wasn’t that long ago, either. He’s not much older than you, which makes him pretty damn young as coolbloods go. (For a second “young for a coolblood” wins out over “older than you” and your gut tries to compare him to Dave. God, it’s so fucked up he has to deal with this shit-- You catch and correct it. Nope, Makara’s your age, he can handle this. Your stomach twists and you do your best to ignore it.) Interesting, you don’t think you’ve ever heard of trolls having descendants at such a young age.

“Room’s down this way,” you say, and turn to lead the way, listening closely for the sound of any stumbles behind you. Waving him in first, you start flashing around the apartment fetching things: a stack of towels, two buckets, a bowl of water and a washcloth, and after some thought, the plastic bin you use to store plush fabric and other puppet construction materials. You’re unsure how much genetic material one troll can possibly produce in a matter of hours, but there’s no way that won’t be more than enough storage space. After another minute of thought, you fetch a pitcher of water and a mug as well, because there’s nothing like a sex marathon to cause some mad dehydration.

Then you turn to him. “All right, can you think of anything else you might need?”

Thick black brows arch at you and Makara looks pointedly around the room at the bountiful supplies you’ve brought him. “Not unless you’re all at having a proper concupiscent platform hid somewhere.”

Yeah, your bed ain’t exactly what he would be used to. “‘Fraid not, but the bed’s probably more comfortable than the floor, anyway.” Assuming your bed can even hold a seven foot troll, that is.

He glances at the bed, nods and looks back at you, saying nothing. The tremors running over his body are making the blanket around him shiver, and you briefly wonder just how much self-control it takes to stand there watching you instead of collapsing into a moaning, writhing heap. Even without speaking, his message is pretty clear. You’ve never been so firmly signaled to get the fuck out of your own room.

Flashing to the door, you turn to look back at him, jerking a thumb at the water pitcher. “Make sure you drink plenty of water, and yell if you need anything.” Then you step out and close the door before the irritated look finishes forming on his face.

For a long moment you just stand there, trying to analyze why you're handling this so badly. Naturally, you’re interrupted before you can get anywhere.

“Goddammit,” comes a mutter from down the hall, and Dave stalks out of his room, shoulders slumped, focused on the screen of his phone. “Remind me again why I decided to hire live actors instead of using CGI?”

“Didn’t you decide real people had far superior options for irony?”

“Yeah, yeah, shitty acting beats shitty animation by a mile, but it wasn’t supposed to go along with shitty behavior and a total fucking absence of professionalism.” He looks up from his phone and registers you standing in front of your closed door. The next step takes him past you and into view of the empty sofa in the living room and he turns to look back at you, eyebrows up. “Tell me you’re not having comfort sex with the troll, Bro.”

“Fuck. You,” you say softly, suddenly so angry it takes effort to keep your face and body still. He’s joking, you’re fully aware he’s not even partly serious right now, you know the difference, but no. Just no.

“Whoa.” He stops walking, hands lifting in a “chill” gesture as he stares at you. “What the fuck?”

“They gave him Ketradax. He doesn’t even fucking work there.”

“Oh, holy _shit_.” His head turns to look at your door and back to you. “So, uh, what’s the plan, you need me to stick around? I was gonna go down to the studio and yell at some people in person but this sounds pretty serious--”

The anger leaves you as quickly as it came and you sigh. “Nah, go on and do your stuff. He’s taking care of it and I’ll be here if he needs anything.”

“Gonna try to call in the law for him?"

"For a low caste drug dealer? How well do you see that turning out for him?"

Dave grimaces. "Fuck, I know, I know, but I can dream, right?"

“Yeah, you and Signless.”

“Right, so, hit me up if you need a hand with him or anything--”

That one’s too good to let pass. Pressing your lips together, you raise your eyebrows at him just enough. 

“ --goddammit no not like that, I didn’t even mean that, you fucker, okay, that one’s on you, resting squarely on your weirdly hatless head, it’s building a nice nest and everything, gonna raise up its babies good and proper and they’ll all be your responsibility, a whole family of nesting asshole innuendos.” He’s wandering towards the door as he speaks, muttering at you over his shoulder. He pauses in front of the door. “Seriously, hit me up, I’ll come back, not like this is direly important to my livelihood or anything-- anyway, I’m gone.”

When the door closes behind him, you take the opportunity to roll your eyes. Yeah, you need your hat. Fortunately you’ve got several spares, so you head for your room-- and stop after half a step because right, logistical problem here. Bad manners to walk in on Makara just because you want a fucking hat. You’re kind of glad Dave wasn’t here to see that, you’re not used to forgetting key details like a drugged troll in your room trying to pail himself senseless. Clearly you’re off your game tonight. In case you hadn’t already noticed. 

After a minute of standing there like a tool, you wander over to the sofa and sit down at one end, safely away from the surprisingly small sticky purple spot in the center and the much larger sticky tan spot where someone spilled soda and couldn't get it out. God, you're gonna have to do something about this sofa, it's getting gross. Pulling out your phone, you look up Ketradax again and start checking around for any ameliorating factors. You’re not expecting an antidote or anything, but finding ways to ease the worst symptoms would be pretty damn helpful right now.

Nothing. At least it looks like you were right about the water, dehydration is a known issue, but nothing you can find has any useful suggestions for what might counteract the intensity of the Ket’s effects. Most of the sites you find are geared towards trolls who’ve taken Ket as a pailing aid, or just for some kinky fun, though a few are more in the nature of warnings and assistance for those dosed involuntarily. None of them can tell you anything new.

Until you scroll halfway down a comment section on one of the kinky sites. The commenter is complaining about chafing and soreness, as common sense would expect, but also a killer horn ache that spread across her head and face and caused enough discomfort to end the festivities early. Apparently it was enough to almost flip her matesprit pale with concern, which seems like a healthy dynamic to you, but given that she had a moirail already, would have been an issue. Having chased her matesprit out and called her moirail over, the commenter persuaded her palemate to rub her horns, but unfortunately as the discomfort subsided the desire once more came to the fore. The moirail stormed out in disgust and the desperate commenter was forced to beg her matesprit to return, which she did, flipping pale, and they vacillated happily ever after.

Holy shit, it’s like a fucking soap opera in here. The flame war that starts in the comments below over quadrant smearing is classic, too, and the schadenfreude is almost enough to distract you from the drop in your gut.

You check back over the other sites, and yeah, intense muscle and horn aches are a pretty common symptom. Sure, staying hydrated will do a lot to help that, but not as much as getting a massage from someone he trusts.

Problem is, there’s no one around that he trusts. He said straight out that he doesn’t have a moirail.

Raking a hand through your hair, you blow out a long breath. Goddammit. Trolls and their stupid fucking quadrant system. 

You want to help this guy, if he’d let you. (Fuck _help_ , you want to wipe out this whole night, make it not have happened, save him from all this painful, humiliating _bullshit_ \-- ) The difficulty is, he’d not only have to trust you, he’d have to be willing to let you tapdance all over his pale boundaries. More than you’ve already done, that is to say. That’s a pretty tall order, given what he’s already put up with tonight. Unlikely he’d agree, unfair to even ask, you know, but your stomach’s in knots at the thought of him refusing. You want to ask, you want to _push_ him into letting you help him, which is coercive and inappropriate and just fucking bizarre.

This is stupid, you don’t even know the guy. What the hell is wrong with you?

Sitting up straight, you concentrate on taking long, slow breaths until you feel a little less like you’re about to fall apart. Then you try to reason this whole thing through.

Granted, he’s raising someone who pings as a little brother.

Dave is only five years younger than you, and at your age no one’s counting anymore, (you will never stop counting), but given that you were always the one with the plan, the one who knew how things worked, who took care of him-- and you know, the fact that there were no parents in the picture-- the parallel stands. Of course Makara’s a grown-ass adult and must have been even back whenever he got the kid, rather than being a dumb teenager trying to look after a nine year old. They’re also trolls, so presumably it’s different. It doesn’t matter; on a gut level it feels the same.

Granted, all your instincts are telling you this guy’s a badass. Even drugged, there’s something in the way he moves that telegraphs careful control and leashed power. For that matter, you may have missed seeing the fight when he flipped out, but judging by the damage he did to the set it must’ve been something.

Granted, you did some seriously stupid shit when you were younger and got yourself into more than one bad situation.

Maybe that’s the problem-- maybe you think you know what this would feel like from the other side. In that case you’re full of shit, because you were never in this situation exactly, but maybe that doesn’t matter. It’s close enough and bad enough that you can extrapolate with ease.

The suggested conclusion that you’re identifying too closely with him doesn’t ring quite true, but you can’t think of a better explanation for the way you’re feeling. It would explain why you’re trying to unravel at the seams, anyway. Fuck that, though, you’ve got shit to do.

Rubbing a hand hard over your mouth, you lean forward and look around the room. You have roughly twenty different projects that could use your attention, everything from updating your website to finishing those three half-sewn smuppets staring accusingly at you from their box in the corner. Unfortunately, your attention is not cooperating. As soon as you try to focus on something, even long enough to figure out where you left off and what you needed to do next, you find your eyes have wandered back to your closed bedroom door and your thoughts are going in circles again.

Is he okay in there? That probably wasn’t enough water for a full grown troll, but you should probably wait to get him more until he asks. What if he needs shit you can’t provide? What if the stupid forum myths are true and it turns out he needs someone to pail him? Ain’t no way you’re up for that. Even if he asks, he’d never forgive you for it, and that thought bothers you a lot more than it should, more than sleeping with someone you’re not into that way. You want to help him, make him feel better, and right now sex is the last thing that’s going to do that. Not to mention telling someone yes when you don’t mean it is a shitty thing to do to both of you.  

You can’t hear a damn sound coming out of that room. All things considered, shouldn’t he be making more noise, or is silence a good sign? Like he’s still got it under control. It would sure be nice if you had a clue how he was doing.

Eventually you realize in disgust you’ve been staring at your computer screen for twenty minutes without having even turned it on yet. Maybe you should just give up for the night, take a nice long shower and bed down on the sofa. After covering all the sticky spots with a sheet or something, obviously.  

Although if you’re in the shower, you won’t hear him if he calls for help.

Goddammit. You’re not getting anything else done tonight, are you? Because you’re tying yourself in knots worrying about a guy you just met. 

Seriously, fuck that. If he needs your help he’ll call out, let you know, and in the meantime you are going to sit your ass down mentally as well as physically and get some fucking work done.

With grim determination you buckle down and manage to focus well enough to get your website updated, two new videos started uploading and several orders acknowledged. You’re distractible as hell and it all takes way longer than it should, but you get it done. You consider getting started on processing the orders just received, but you’re low on boxes and you don’t need the turnaround to be that fast anyway. Your business model is to alternate working your ass off with being kind of lazy. It seems to work.

You’ve managed to keep yourself occupied for almost an hour and you’re trying to focus long enough to start on the next item on your list when there’s a snarl from the bedroom, loud even through the door, and a thump that shakes the floor. Holy shit, what the hell is he doing in there?

As you flash over to knock on the door, part of your mind is pointing out that it’s two a.m. and if he keeps that up your diurnal neighbors are going to be really pissed. Honestly though, at the moment the neighbors are not your top concern.

“Yo, Makara, sup?”

The only answer you get is a growl, quieter this time but still dangerous sounding. Not cool. Not helpful at all, actually, you kinda need a verbal response here.

“Hey, I’m opening the door, all right?”

That might be another quiet growl, but if he was planning to attack or some shit he’d be a lot louder about it. Probably as close to an invitation as you're going to get, and you need to make sure he's all right, so you open the door.

A gust of cinnamon scent hits you in the face. He’s not on the bed like you expected and it takes your eyes a moment to find him. Leaning his back against the wall, he’s sitting on a sort of broad cushion of folded towels. It should really not be a surprise that he’s completely naked, the stained blanket long since discarded in the middle of the floor, but somehow it startles you. Or possibly it’s the fact that his purple bulge is tangled around his fingers and he’s glaring at you, fangs bared. 

“Yo,” you say. “There a reason you’re snarling and thumping and shit?”

“It _hurts_ ,” he growls. “Pail and a half and still unsatisfied, and there’s an ache and a soreness up on me now and yet I can’t motherfucking _stop_.”

“Well, shit.” Now that you’re looking, you notice that both the buckets you brought are in use, so that was a good decision. “Can I do anything, I mean, get you anything that might help?” Yeah, you need to phrase that carefully.

No surprise that he’s still suspicious, despite your change of wording. Eyes narrowed, he flashes fangs at you again. “Don’t you motherfucking touch me,” he says in a low, grating rumble.

That stings more than it probably ought to. You feel you’re justified in raising eyebrows at him. “Did you miss that I’m standing over here in the doorway? Chill out, I’m not interested.”

He frowns at you, but some of the tension goes out of him, which is something at least. Trying to think, you look him over again and realize that the hand tangled with his bulge is purple and dripping while the other is mostly clean. Not that you're any expert on troll masturbation techniques, but it seems to you it’d make sense to use one hand for the nook and the other for the bulge. On the other hand, with the claws he’s sporting, messing around with his own nook is probably a no-go.

“If you’ve no interest all at it, why up and make the offer?” Makara says.

Sure he’s paranoid, but he could put a little more effort into hearing what you actually say. “Dude, I didn’t offer to touch you,” you say patiently, “I offered to get you something. Be helpful to give your bulge a break, wouldn’t it? I got some things you could use, if you want.”

“Things,” he says flatly.

“Things, toys, stuff for your nook.” Normally you enjoy shoving what you do for a living in people’s faces, but you don’t actually want to make Makara any twitchier than he already is. Instead of smirking and saying it like a challenge, you turn your head so he knows you’re looking away, shrug a little and try for matter-of-fact. “I sell sex toys. I can get you a selection of sizes and everything.”

There’s a long goddamn silence while he glowers at the floor and you pretend you’re not anxious about his reaction. Waiting, you glance around again and realize the water pitcher you brought him is almost empty. Gotta refill that before you leave again.

Finally he speaks. “And all glee and mirth will you be that I’m at using your toys? The mere thought a motherfucking pleasure to you, or do you plan to get your watch on of it too, Strider?”

It hits you like a punch to the teeth. Which is stupid, the intensity of your reaction is totally irrational, but even knowing that you can’t control it. Hurt and anger surge up and come spilling out of you. “What single thing have I done tonight to make you think I’m that kind of sicko?” you say tightly. “I may not be the most approachable host or the friendliest guy out there, but I am working my ass off trying. If I could wipe this whole thing out, fix it so this never happened to you, I would, but since I can’t, I’m doin' my level best to make up for it. All I want to do is help you, jackass. I get why you’re twitchy and angry, but name me one fuckin’ thing I’ve done to make you feel not safe and I’ll change it. Otherwise stop treating me like an asshole who’s only lookin' to take advantage of you.”

He’s still frowning but his expression is strange for a moment. His eyes flick over you up and down and his frown deepens. “One thing, is it? Motherfucker, I’ll spell it clear. Here I sit grub-naked, stripped even of self-control and all but helpless in your block, in your hive, by your means and will. And there you stand full-clothed and at your ease, dictating terms and making free with your gaze, without even the courtesy to show your face for truth.”

 _Dictating terms_. Your stomach drops. You didn’t even think, you didn’t realize how it would look to him, didn’t see this coming and make appropriate adjustments. Maybe in your first conversation you convinced him to trust you provisionally, but then you walked in on him like an arrogant prick, got your fucking feelings hurt and snapped at him. Not to mention blatantly staring at him the whole time like it was your right to invade his privacy that way. Of course he doesn’t fucking trust you. Self-loathing comes slipping in after the wash of shame, but you stave it off trying to work out what he means that you're not showing your face--

Sensing your puzzlement, he growls. “Your eyes, Strider. All the power in your motherfucking hands and still a need in you to up and hide your eyes from me, brought low as I am.”

Oh. He wants you to take off your shades.

Not because he’s intimidated, it sounds like, but because he wants to get a better read on you. Pretty easy to understand with him all too aware of his vulnerable position.

You could strip down to the skin and be less naked than taking your shades off in front of him. At this point, though, you owe him that much and more.

“All right,” you say on an exhale. “You got it.” Sliding them off, you fold them and hook one earpiece in the neck of your shirt. Fuck, it’s bright in here. Without your accustomed shield in place, meeting his gaze is hella uncomfortable, and you only hold it for a moment before casually looking away again. “As requested, the flawless Strider visage bared before you.” It’s meant to be flippant but comes out sort of toneless.

He doesn’t respond, and when you glance back at him his eyes are sharp and intent on your face. There can’t be much to see there, it’s not like your face is expressive even with your eyes showing. Looking back to the wall across from you, you try to ignore the pressure of his gaze and focus on what you have to say. “I’m sorry. I honestly wasn’t trying to do the powerplay thing, but I guess it came out that way because being a dick is sort of my default.” Your gaze slides down the wall to your bed, wanders off the bed and over the floor to settle in front of your feet. “Tell me,” you say in a lower voice, “what I need to do to make you feel safe. You need clothes or something to cover up with, I can get you that. You need me to shut my face and get out of your way, I can do that too.”

“Certain doubts up on me on that count,” Makara says, and your head snaps around to look at him. His eyes are narrowed, face unreadable. “When my way is all at being in your respite block, who’s to say a motherfucker can’t come wandering in as pleases him?”

Returning your gaze to your feet, you nod. He has every right to be pissed. “You’re right, barging in on you without permission was invasive and rude as fuck and I need to cut that shit out. On the flipside, when you need help I… really would appreciate it if you’d let me know. I’m not saying you have to, I get it, I know you don’t trust me. I just... want you to be okay. All right, I’m-- I’ll get out of your face.” You grab the door to pull it closed and shut yourself out, then remember you meant to refill his water pitcher. Before you can open your mouth to mention it, he speaks.

“Bring in that toy you were telling at me,” he growls. “Then go.”

“Right,” you say instead. “Okay.” Pulling the door nearly to, you go to rummage through your supplies until you’ve located three of your standard dildos, one in each size. A warning tap on the door before you push it open and then you hold the toys up for his perusal.

He seems to be having trouble focusing and he barely glances before jerking his head for you to bring them over. You do, keeping your eyes off of him as much as you can, and he grabs them, growling quietly.

“Looks like you need more water,” you say, picking up the pitcher.

“Leave it filled outside the door and let me motherfucking _be_ ,” he snarls, and you flashstep out of there.

Okay. Okay. That did not go well. Breathing slowly and carefully, you fill the pitcher from the kitchen sink and leave it by the closed door. Then you try to remember what you were going to work on next. Your concentration is split and faltering, but what else is new tonight? Just because you can’t focus for shit doesn’t mean you get to slack off for the rest of the night.

After a while, the door opens enough for a big hand to retrieve the water pitcher, then shuts again. Well, at least he'll stay hydrated. You've done that much to help, however inconsequential compared to everything you've screwed up.  

Before, it was difficult to focus because you were worrying about him; now it’s hard because you can’t stop going over all the ways you fucked that up. Because, yes, you fucked up in some radical and impressive ways just now.

Sure, you got the guy out of a bad situation, so that makes it ok to walk in on him, right? It’s your bedroom after all, no need to be deferential or courteous. Why not gawk at him while you’re at it. Make it clear yours are the only rights that matter here; you rescued him so you practically own him, right? What the fuck did you think you were doing?

Ten or twelve years ago, at this juncture you could’ve looked forward to spending the rest of the night in a tightening downward spiral of self-hatred, anxiety, and hypercritical analysis. Fortunately you’ve matured a certain amount since then, and while you can’t stop the critical voice from ranting on about your shortcomings (how would you? It’s telling the truth) you’ve found you can eventually shunt it to the back of your mind instead of devoting all your mental energy to it.  

When you finally manage that, the other issue comes to the fore. He’s not going to trust you after this. Even if he registered the stuff you said about wanting to help him, even if he somehow believed it, you behaving like a grade-A jackass will have counteracted that pretty thoroughly. It doesn’t matter if he starts to need help, he’s not going to call you. That’s his choice, he’s fully competent to make it and you have to accept that like a fucking grownup.

It’s stupid that it bothers you so much, a quiet ache in your chest that you’ve got no idea what to do with.

You leave your shades off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get pale, and no one knows what to do about it.

This Messiahs-forsaken night has been nothing but trial and motherfucking tribulation, and it is notably wearing at you. Enduring the degradations that have come upon you tonight is in no way natural to you (your motherfucking Ancestor was like to a holy _king_ , and rarely does that slip from your thoughts). Though you keep your mind sternly fixed on what you must bear in the present moment, you know when this is safely past and you're able to dwell on all that's happened the humiliation and rage will fill you to brimming and scorch down to the bone. (You know because you can already feel it, though you will not acknowledge, you cannot motherfucking afford the distraction.)

Your body aches. In the grip of this heinous drug, you have abused yourself till every muscle quivers with fatigue, till the aching soreness of overuse between your legs has sunk into your bones and spread from horntips to toes. Though you’d swear you’re finally wrung dry, there's so much hurt all on you that you can’t get your surety at if the drug’s worn off or if the pain’s enough to mask it.

You're in the midst of snarling curses at the throb of your horns when you realize it might be as there's remedy for the hurting. If so, it lies in the keeping of the brazen hornless motherfucker who's been all to taking you in at his own hive for no sensible reason as you can up and guess at.

Being at his mercy and in his debt brings a full measure of uneasiness down on you, but for all you resent the need for his help you cannot deny he’s given it. Well and clear he has made it that he’s used to having his own way, used to pushing on till he gets it and paying little mind to the comfort of any around him, yet effort he has made that your needs be met. As little regard as he seemed to have for your privacy and ease of mind, when you took him to task for it he was quick to make amends and meet your demands. He made apology at you, as was wholly unexpected, and in all discomfort of sincerity as far as you could tell.

Whether he’ll keep to his shamed courtesy or slide back into the intrusive confidence of a highblood on someone else’s turf you cannot guess. In any case, once again you need what help he can give.

“Strider!” you growl.

A quiet footstep outside and his voice comes through the closed door, “Yo.”

You wait, but the door shows no sign of getting to being opened. “You waiting on a motherfucking invitation?”

Another pause comes before the door opens finally. He's all whipcord and muscle, standing there with shoulders straight and tight, all bronze skin and pale hair and strange off-spectrum eyes fixed on the floor by his feet.

He makes no move to step in, and at the back of your pan part of you as had braced to defend begins to ease a little, seeing him set at leaving you your space.

“I didn’t figure you wanted me coming in,” he says. His pointy brightness-shields are still hooked up on his shirt, his face is bare. Courtesy it is then, seemingly. “What’s up, you need something?”

“Pan’s all up and ready to crack in pieces if my horns don’t shatter first,” you say, voice grating. Feels like even your teeth are getting their ache and twinge on now. “Got any sort of pain-ease at you here?”

You're watching him close enough to note the concealed wince before he takes a slow breath, still carefully looking away from you. “Sorry, man, Trollinol ain't gonna do the trick and anything heavier duty wouldn’t mix well with the Ket even if I had it on hand. According to the boards I’ve found, what was most effective was massage, so what you want to do is try to give yourself a horn rub, maybe a scalp massage, if you can manage it.”

“Motherfucker,” you say through gritted teeth, “my very bones have set to clamouring as how loud is their hate of me this night, and me all sitting still just now. Little help I’ll get from effort and movement while it incites their wrath the more, and little ability to focus on the task should I try.” All you want is something you can take to dull the bruised and battered feeling that reaches to your clawtips, and he’ll say at you as there’s no such remedy? (There’s also the minor detail that, having had only a brief pale hookup, you’re all at knowing little to nothing of massage… and have no liking for touch on your horns at the best of times. It brings memory up at you as you have no desire to recall. Of this, no word are you about to speak.)

He’s frowning now. “That sounds worse than most of what was described on the boards... I wonder if you got a bigger dose than usual. I can’t-- I mean-- What do you want me to say? If you had a moirail this would be easy, but then this whole thing wouldn’t-- you wouldn’t even be here. If you weren’t, if it wasn’t Ket, I could just get you home and your kid could maybe do something for you, but you don’t want him to see you like this, so that’s out-- and I get it, I don’t fuckin' blame you.” His hands are moving in tightly controlled, sharp little gestures that you eye as you wait impatiently for him to find his whimsical motherfucking point. Well and fully are you aware of exactly how little choice you have ready at frond here. He has no need to go and be painting it more clear for you.

He takes a breath, blows it out slow. “I could-- if you-- I would help, but. Yeah. I don’t know what’s left that I can do to help you.”

You had your suspicion on of just about so much. He’s been pale-flirting hard pretty much since he first spoke word at you, and the hornless motherfucker made clear he knew it well and sure, no ignorance of trollish culture to hide behind. A powerful reluctance to trust him lingers at the front of your pan, on edge as you are after the atrocious events of this night and getting on full expectation of more to come, but that you push back and disregard as best possible.

As thoughtless rude as he’s been, his voice and stance now sound a different note. ( _If I could wipe this whole night out, make it so this never happened, I would--_ ) Contrite caution in every muscle, he’s trying to placate, to conciliate, playing at pale as thorough as any hornless can. More thorough than you thought they could, in all truth. It’s still a game to him, he can’t understand it true and real as a troll would, but. With pain pounding through the flesh and cords and struts of you, you’ve no choice. Best you be at persuading yourself to give that trust where it’s needed or you’ll not be able to let him within arm’s reach.

Sighing deep, you roll your head a little, flinching at the pull and stretch on your taut neck. “Fine then. Get your ass up on and over here so you can be at helping.”

(Back of your pan, part of you is calculating. He’s armed, you remember that much, got at least one blade in his specibus, but your clubs are all at being safely tucked away in yours still, and you’re bigger than him, stronger; even if he got the drop on you, you’d be well enough most like. He’s got no plans up at him to attack, you remind yourself, and try to stop thinking on it.)

He’s still a moment, staring wide-eyed at the wall, then moves slowly towards you. His gaze flicks to take in the stained towel you tossed off to one side, the wet washcloth and the toys he gave you now lying on it. You see him note the two pails, full and mostly full, then the half-empty pitcher and the bowl of cloudy purple water, before he turns his eyes firmly back to the floor. Motherfuck, you'd almost managed to forget the reek of pheromones and genetic material you've up and filled the block with, your own olfactory nub grown numb to it. All praise to Messiahs both he's hornless and not susceptible to the pheromones.

Passing the blanket you dropped a long fucking span back, he picks it up, holds it out to you, shielding your body from his own sight with it as he meets your eyes for the first time. You take it after a moment, drape it over your lap and around your thorax as high up as it reaches. Not as good as motherfucking clothing, but yours you left behind at that abhorrent place and not likely to see again (and there’s a matter you’ve not yet braced to meet; what to tell your earnest bright-eyed wiggler when you finally get to making your return and he sees you grub-bare and lacking all you went out with). Inadequate as it is, the blanket’s a better shield than your plain hide, and it almost annoys, how much more settled you feel to be covered.

Strider crouches on his heels in front of you, avoiding your eyes again as he looks you over. “What, uh, where do you want me to start?”

Can’t help but growl a touch at that, this is all at being a world away from _wanting_ , but you control, bite it back. This at least, he’s free of fault in. “No part of me as is lacking in ache and soreness for true, so. The pain’s vicious all up in head and horns, shoulders maybe. Keep your motherfucking paws well and away from horns and hornbeds and we’re all at being good.”

“Got it,” Strider says, and one hand reaches out cautious toward you. Effort it takes not to twitch away, but you steel yourself, you brace for the touch. He brushes your hair aside to set hand on your shoulder, leaves it there a moment, then kneels up closer and leans into your space. His hands close around your shoulders, fingers digging into the knotted muscles there, and it feels-- not bad. Not good, yet, he’s too close, hornless and not-clade and untrusted, but this you can bear.

He works at your shoulders for a while, hands stronger than you expected, and it starts to feel better than not-bad. He’s pressing the tension out by force, muscling your flesh into compliance, into releasing and relaxing at his will, but all being only at your request. When he moves onto the base of your neck, thumbs shoving hard into the strung-up muscle there, the relief is so sudden that the low, edgy growl you’ve been trying to suppress stutters and comes out half a groan.

“Gonna assume that’s a good sign,” he says, kneading the back of your neck on either side of your thoracic support column. Seems like he’s all at being as little at ease lingering so near as you are; his eyes are fixed on your chin, never rising to meet your gaze, and you think his face is maybe darker than it was, redder. Could be as he had no plans to be kneeling practically in your lap, but he’s the one what placed himself there (wisely enough. You would not react well if he tried at getting behind you).

“Also gonna assume you’ll be so good as to let me know if I hurt you or need to stop, preferably with words,” he adds. An acknowledging sort of grumble makes it out your mouth and you sense the tension in him ease a little.

He’s all at rubbing the base of your skull now, just up in the hairline under the mass of your hair, and the pain is slowly getting its shift and slide on, draining out little by little. Feels so motherfucking good you’re ready to name it miraculous, admire his hands as vessels of the Messiahs’ kindest mercy (as no hornless heretic would properly appreciate, so you keep that notion back behind your teeth).

Could be it's feeling a mite too good in truth, since your bulge, as had tucked away in its sheath when the pain came on hard, now begins to entertain thought of emerging again. The touch as Strider's giving you is a pleasing relief and all but not that manner of pleasure or anything like, and confusion sets on you until you realize. This is no fresh onset but only what lay under the pain, suppressed by it; you can tell, for the need has considerable less force to it than an hour past. When you tighten the muscles of your sheath to keep your bulge in it puts only a mild ache on you instead of the anguish and impossibility it would’ve been previous.

Strider pauses after a while. “Fucking hell, this floor is doing shitty-ass things to my knees. Don’t suppose you’d be willing to lie down on the bed so I can get in a chair. Or you could just sit on the bed and I can stand, that’d work.”

In no fucking way will you even be at _considering_ lying down on his concupiscent platform, and you don’t much feel like sitting on it either. After some thought, you say, “Bring me a chair and you can be at saving your knees by standing.”

“Deal.”

While he goes to fetch it, you take the opportunity to get the blanket wrapped well and secure around you. The chair turns out to be cheap metal with little comfort to it, but the padding of the blanket makes it tolerable. Strider goes to step behind you and you turn your head fast, almost catching him with one horn.

“Best you stay in sight, or I can’t be at speaking for my instincts.”

“'kay.” He stands beside you instead and slides his hands back in your hair, rubbing at your scalp, and you let out your breath and untense again easier than is your wont.

Being as he has such wondrous fine skill in those hands, a curiosity comes on you. “How’d a motherfucker get the knowledge on him of this, this use of pressure all careful gauged for relief?”

Strider shrugs. “Not like you need some inborn talent to learn it, it's pretty straightforward. My little bro used to get these headaches when he was younger and rubbing his neck and head would help sometimes. By necessity I eventually figured out what worked and got reasonably capable at it. Glad it carries over to trolls.”

Far as you’re aware, to hornless as use the word, "brother" means something of moirail and in cahoots, something of hatchmate and something of Ancestor or Descendant. Complicated as shit for sure, but as you contemplate it occurs that the courtesies up and used for clade and quadrant-corners might be usefully applied to find things out about this motherfucker.

“He after doing well now?”

Strider's hands pause on you and when you look his eyes are on yours with surprise all up in them. "Dave? What, you mean like, does he still get headaches and shit? Nah, dude, he's fine now, it was just an adolescent thing."

"No, motherfucker, I mean is he all at chill with his manner of life, does he have his fucking success on or does he yet labor in weariness and need?"

"Oh." Strider's watching you now, strange bright eyes wide and alert. "Coming on with the big questions, there." He eyes you a moment longer, then looks aside. "Yeah, he's doing fine. Working on shit he cares about, starting to get noticed. He's got a good set of friends, too, he's not-- he's good. He's good."

What was it he up and bit back there, stopped himself from speaking aloud? Some buried worry or relief all at his hatchmate’s account. Hornless fucker’s got secrets, truths he wants unsaid to you. Well, little surprise there; neither of you is like to get your trust on too heavy yet.

A gradual relaxation is creeping on you, the joints and catches and bindings of you loosening and going slack. Nook still overwarm and needy, you shift a little to ease it, but your bulge is quiet now instead of pressing for release and the ache as was on it has faded off. Your manner of speech comes more easy and peaceable as the pain slides farther away, Strider's miracle hands working up at your temples and around the sides to the back of your head. His touch stays carefully wide of your hornbeds.

“Got quadrants to his name?”

Strider glances at you again and his eyes narrow slightly before he shrugs. “As much as humans do quadrants-- who the fuck knows? He’s got some kind of on-again off-again thing with his friend Jade, and he’s probably crushing on more of his friends, but as for anything permanent I have no clue.”

“All hornless?”

“What, Dave’s friends? No, there’s some trolls in there, and his bestie is this little carapacian dude, some kind of political activist or something, very earnest. --No offense, dude, but why this sudden fascination with Dave?”

“You got more clade up at you I can be asking about? Quadrants?”

“No, I-- I’ve got a couple friends, sure-- That doesn't actually answer my question.”

You let out an exasperated growl. “The fuck other way have I got at me to go chasing down the bones and the roots of who you’re to being than asking after those you know? Simplest courtesy besides, motherfucker, asking after the health and joy of those as are most dear to you.”

“Huh,” he says after a pause. “True enough, I just didn’t expect you to start engaging in social pleasantries here. Didn’t really think you were up for the getting-to-know-you game.”

“Now I’m not besieged by want or pain either and can give attention where it’s due, no reason on me not to be. A motherfucker goes all pale as hornless can be, it well behooves I should make question, find out what I can of such a skillful-handed brother.”

A longer pause this time. “Right,” he says, and when you glance up at him you cannot read his face. “So, that go both ways? Be pretty unjust for you to be behaving all civilly and inquiring after my life and all if I’m not allowed to reciprocate.”

Easy enough for you to acknowledge as much and agree. Under your questioning, he tells you at length and with some eloquence of his various business ventures (and fuck but those are some odd motherfucking perversities, and odd motherfuckers they cater to). When he returns the question, your response has considerable more brevity (no one hires purplebloods for aught but the filthiest of tasks, and what pays is rarely legal). He asks after clade and hatefriends and you speak a little on those you have some amount of trust in, mostly purples and all worshipping alike, though you say nothing of that.

At his urging you lean forward in the chair so he can be at rubbing farther down your thoracic column and to the muscles on either side. Mother _fuck_ but it feels good.

You ask again after his own clade and his answer is breezy as he names the folk he claims to count as hatefriends, he is laid-back and assured and false enough to set your teeth on edge. What it is exactly that he speaks falsehood on you cannot be sure, but when you listen closely you begin to suspect.

“ --there’s Jake, pretty sure he’s not even on the planet at the moment, probably getting up to some kind of insane shenanigans off in some alien jungle out there, dude’s ridiculous. Jade’s working with Roxy right now, I have no idea what kind of crazy science they’re getting up to, shit is unreal, I can’t even follow. Rose is getting probably her fifth book published pretty soon, lady’s pretty much a feted celebrity by now, got mad amounts of fame all up ons. Told you about Dave already. And Janey,” he smiles a little, “she’s just opened up a second location for her bakery.”

‘Probably’, he says, and ‘pretty sure’, ‘no idea’. Sure, a brother can’t be talking at all his hatefriends all the time, but you’re thinking as how he ought to sound less like most of his information’s secondhand. How often is it he gets on his visit with them? With all the names he just made mention of it can’t be he’s isolated, that would be downright pitiable--

You catch yourself at it, rein hard in. As pale as he’s all to have been acting, he’s hornless and has no true understanding up on him of what that’s to being, and you’d best be keeping on your firm recall of that. Be they true or false, his hatefriends are no business of yours, and no more is his happiness.

Still, it’s tickled you in your curiosity. “Got no quadrants to you?”

His hands dig hard into your muscles and you barely keep from chirring pleasure. “Nothing permanent, if that’s what you’re asking. On the non-platonic side anyway; everyone knows humans are pretty much a permanent ashen-pale clusterfuck to start with.” He pauses, hands sliding back up your back to rest on one shoulder. “Hey, how’s your head doing?”

“A whole motherfucking world better,” you say, leaning back again. The pounding in your skull is gone in its entirety and only a faint tightness and a sort of vibrating tension remains in the length of your horns and the top of your pan.

He just nods, but you can feel the way things that are strung taut in him loosen some. “Great. Any pain left?”

Casual, you shrug one shoulder. “Naught worth the mention.” If you’re already up and shading pale for a hornless fucker as will have forgotten you tomorrow, best you hold your sense to you and not ask for more.

“Fuckin’ sweet. So overall, you feel alright?”

“More or less.” You tilt your head at him. “Just curiosity up and itching at me now.”

He shakes his head slowly. "Sad as I am to admit I'm not always a hundred percent guaranteed to satisfy, for the sake of honesty I gotta say if you want to know how one mortal man can be so outrageously sicknasty radical, we can only mourn in silence; some secrets are sacred.”

How he managed to say that in all apparent solemnity you cannot be to guessing, but the deadpan wins him a snort and raised brows. “No, motherfucker, I’m all to wondering how it is to fall pale for every pathetic body caught in mischance or lowered circumstances. Fucking hornless, what even is it with you folk?”

Just for a second, he goes stiff. If you weren’t watching close you might not have caught it, might not have noted the forced way he relaxes again and the tension still in his shoulders as he tucks his thumbs in his pockets. He gives a laconic shrug. “As to the second, couldn’t say. As to the first, I’m not the one to ask, given that I don’t actually make a habit of this.”

With as pale as he’s been acting, that is not what you had expectation on to hear. Or it could be as you mistook his meaning. “A habit of going pale for any pathetic body what crosses your path?”

“A habit of rescuing strangers from shitty situations and putting them in my bedroom.” And little more rubbing the pains from their flesh with his own fronds, you're betting. He’s all tightened down on himself, you can tell by his breathing, though his face shows none of it. Never have you seen such a tensed up fucker pretending so hard at being relaxed.

Seems reasonable to guess it could be a fair bit unnerving to go pale for a stranger for the first time, even for a hornless. Though you’ve little skill at reassurance, you try to think what might comfort you in similar circumstance. “No fear on it, brother, it’s all to being real motherfucking temporary,” you say. “As I made mention before, I’m no sort to inspire pity in all truth; it’s the situation alone as makes it seem so. Give it a night or two and you’ll up and find overday the pale crush is gone.”

"Pale crush. You think I've got a pale crush on you." His voice is barely at being more expressive than his face, but you think it's disbelief sounding in it.

"Any better explanation up on you for what you were at telling me before, the wish of wiping this away all for my ease?"

He stares at you for a long moment. “You think that means I’m, like, infatuated. But pale.” Are his cheeks up and going ruddy again?

“As best I can figure, brother. But get your peace on; it’s to being a passing thing.”

This seems to ease him not at all. His brows pull together a touch and his eyes narrow. “That’s a real interesting conclusion. I’m curious what you’re basin’ it on. For instance, what would you expect this ‘pale crush’ to feel like?”

“I’ve not been to have the experience of it,” you say, frowning back at him. “Still, I’d guess at it feeling all warm and soft and pity-aching up in the middle of your thorax, just as a true diamond would feel. Difference being, in real honest serendipity your pity’s all set on things as are about the person you’re feeling it for, and in a crush-- well. Brother, you got no motherfucking notion on you as to who I’m all up and being for truth. But you see me pushed down and humbled and you go to thinking I’m beat and helpless. Easy to pity a motherfucker when he’s whipped and lying in the dust.” Your lip curls and a hint of growl rumbles in your thorax. “Not so much once he’s gained his feet and set to pulling down the walls.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Not how I’d see it, but whatever. Far as I understand it, trolls have just as big a thing as humans about love at first sight, or pity, whatever. That's what serendipity _is_ , at least according to your media. Obviously most of the time that does constitute a crush, but it's expected to grow into something deeper, so don't tell me you don't believe in that shit. Also, human pity doesn't work the same as trolls’. We've got a hell of a lot more appreciation for someone who claws their way back up after they've been knocked down than for someone who just fuckin’ lies there. Not sayin’ this is real, whatever the fuck it is-- though who the hell defines reality anyway-- but I think your basic premises are wrong.”

Your frown has turned sharp and heavy. Who the fuck does he think he gets at being that he’s so brazenly telling at you that you’re wrong? “Motherfucker, what exactly are you being to say? You got a point all at you?”

Still frowning, he looks at you straight, thin-lipped. “I’m sayin’, I think I know you well enough.”

With him all tight and edgy, watching you like he’s facing down some danger, it takes a minute for you to get on the correct interpretation of that. A romantic confession it is motherfucking not, at first note. When you get your study on of it though... Bewilderment pulls your glare apart, has you staring at him with your brows up by your hair. “Are you all at saying as you think you’re pale in truth? And this what you’re feeling is the spark of serendipity?”

“No.” One hand slashes the air, cutting down that notion, then both hands are up and gesturing sharp, frustrated as he takes a step away, turns back. “No, I don’t fuckin’ know-- You know what? Nevermind.” He’s suddenly by the door without you seeing him move, the brother is maybe even better at speedslipping than you are. “You’re fine, we’re done, you need clothes and then you can get home.” He wrenches open a drawer of the dresser by the door, tosses a bundle of cloth at you and is out the door almost before he’s finished speaking.

“What the holy motherfuck,” you say flatly. Brother is all fluster and haste, all discomfort and unsettlement and it intrigues more than it should. First you look over the garments he’s offered and drop the blanket to get at pulling on a worn pair of loose knit pants that dangle well above your ankle. Then you follow him, carrying the shirt.

He’s seated at a computer when you step out of his respiteblock, typing hard and fast, and once again his pointy brightness-shields are up and on his motherfucking face. If he glances up to acknowledge you, it’s without moving his head and so you are left none the fucking wiser.

“If I give you directions to the nearest bus stop, you gonna remember them, or should I write ‘em out?” he says all cool, like you’ll have any inclination to be letting go the previous topic.

Maybe you should get on your clarification of that point. You speedslip over to him, place one hand on his desk and one on the back of his chair--

Which goes flying, and suddenly there’s a motherfucking blade in your face which your club counters without thought. The both of you stand unmoving a second before he steps back, lowering his sword. He’s breathing hard.

“Holy shit,” he says. “What the fuck. Do not fuckin’ startle me like that, Jesus pig-fucking Christ.”

You stare at him, step away shaking your head. "Here on your own ground, in your own motherfucking hive, and you're all at being so wrought up even to expecting attack? Much there is could be said of me not to my credit, but I've little enough reason to get on my wicked reproach of you with clubs and fury."

"Probably should avoid gettin' in my face and looming, then," he says tightly. "Kinda sends the wrong goddamn message."

His sword vanishes, so you tuck your own weapon back into your strife deck and look Strider over again, reevaluating, puzzling. He fled the room when you pressed him on the point of his being pale for you in truth. Now he’s all to hiding his face again, and riled enough to draw weapon of simple startlement. It does not come easy on you to be at setting yourself in another’s place, getting on imagination of what might be passing in another’s pan, but on consideration you find this tale is one you can read well enough.

Once more he’s lost his courtesy, he is strung taut and ready to aggress and hiding himself as best he can, because he’s all at feeling a tender place bare and revealed as he had no intention of. Having up and made himself so exposed half unexpected, little wonder he should be on edge. Again you feel a stray pale twinge, this time one what says this is familiar, this you know. It puts you out of your comfort to think on similarities between how this motherfucker gets at behaving and how you might yourself, and you turn away, pick up the borrowed shirt you dropped and get some distance up in between you.

“Unless you’re all to be lending money for the fare, little good directions will do me in either case,” you say, sprawling yourself on the much stained multiple seating unit and draping the shirt on the arm. “Had I inclination to be leaving at all while those effects yet linger, which I do not.”

He turns sharp to face you, shoulders dropping in shock. “Effects-- holy shit, you’re still feeling the Ket? Why the fuck didn’t you say anything, I-- shit. Are you okay?”

Laughter comes as a balm; your night has been sore lacking in mirth thus far and it is endless relief to feel it flow once more. Still chuckling, you say easy, “My hornless brother, I been at feeling it ever since those miracle hands of yours got on their work of touch and pushed back all anguish by force and persuasion. No great trial in it now, the drive and power of it’s well faded.” Purest truth, bulge and nook both have stopped speaking their need at you and are nearly quiet, only the pheromones yet lingering around you along with the tightness in your horns and the residual heat in your gut. What still yearns you barely notice, blessed surcease compared to what was.

“Well, fuck,” he says. “I read about that on the boards, I just assumed it was an idiosyncratic response, not a common thing. At least it’s mostly out of your system, sounds like.” He turns away to set his chair upright again, glances at the computer screen but makes no move to be sitting back down.

Tilting your head, you gaze on him long and thoughtful. He notices and faces you again, squaring off, thumbs tucking back into his pockets.

“So how’s it to be that a brother says he’s all to be feeling pale for definite and no crush, yet can’t be up and calling it real either?” you ask him.

His lips tighten and his shoulders rise tense again, ready to move, to defend. “That’s... kinda complicated.”

“Motherfucker, try me.”

His brows pull down a fraction and you can feel the glare what’s all hid behind his brightness-shields. “Fine,” he says flat. “I don’t know what the hell this is. It’s sure as fuck not pity as I know it, not the human kind, and it can’t be the troll kind because I’m not a fucking troll. Far as I can tell there ain’t nothin’ pathetic about you; you’re strong and smart and proud, a good fighter, you know how to keep your head above water and you’re a damn good lusus to your kid. And you had some shit happen to you tonight that shouldn’t fuckin’ happen to anybody. I hate that. I hate that I can’t fix it, I hate that the law won’t do shit about it--” He breaks off, briefly looks away, drawing a careful breath. When he looks back at you you’re surprised by the thin smirk. “Not used to feeling this strongly about somebody I just met unless I wanna bone them. The latter aspect being notably lacking in this instance.”

“To your good fortune,” you rumble, “as that would go all manner of poorly for you.”

“That detail aside,” he says dryly. “So. Here I am with a fuckload of weird-ass dokis all up ins and no idea why or what to do about it. It's kinda pissing me off.”

That much is clear in every taut, uneasy line of him. You take a moment to get on thought of all he’s said at you tonight, wishes at protecting, at caring for, of all he’s done to ease your way. Easy enough to dismiss before as inexplicable hornless behavior, yet seen from this new angle-- “Brother, you are all pale as motherfucking bone and sand. Why get at suggesting that it’s not for truth?”

“Because I’m not a troll,” he says back, as close to growling as hornless can make, “and this is fuckin’ weird!”

“Huh,” you say thoughtfully, spreading your arms along the back of the seating unit and tilting your head back to regard the ceiling. “True enough, most folks as speak of hornless getting their pity on so easy, seems more like a passing crush the way they up and tell it, in no sort the same what you speak.” For a little span you consider, but some length of sweeps it’s been since any made romantic confessannihilation at you and never pale before, so you are intrigued in no small measure. “Well. Come over and get your sit on by me.”

When you look over his brows are drawn. “Why.”

Plenty of replies you could be to making, but as he’s been honest with you thus far it seems only just you should be as open with him. “Motherfuck, Strider, did you miss as I have an open diamond quadrant and not exactly crowds crying out to fill it? Get your ass to being over here and court me.”

Something in his stance and the angle of his head tells you he’s staring at you. “You’re fuckin’ with me. We just met, and you-- are you serious?”

“Are you?” you shoot back.

A long minute goes past in silence as he stands unmoving, staring, and you start in to wondering if it’s a misjudgment you’ve made, if he’s only eager to have you safe gone so as he can forget this weirdness, this feeling what sets him so at discomfort.

Finally, “Yeah,” he says soft. “Serious as a legislacerater on a bad night. Alright, fine, let’s do this.” He stalks over and drops himself on the other end of the seating unit like it’s a motherfucking dare.

Watching him, you nod slow and take a breath. Not that you’re nervous exactly, but things just up and got real for the second time tonight but in the exact opposite of ways, uncertain ally turned suitor and he is sitting right there, so near you and dripping diamonds. Maybe your pan’s finding some difficulty at wrapping around it. “Bare your face for me,” you say, and in attempt to resist an awed hush it comes out too hard, an order.

You were previously unaware a head tilt could be sarcastic. “Seriously,” he says. “You sayin’ in order to court you I gotta be submissive? Because if so, you’re going about this scene way the hell wrong.”

Motherfuck, you misstepped well nigh instantaneously. “No!” you growl, and look away in frustration. “No, in moirallegiance true and proper neither submits to the other except for wanting it, and I would not demand-- Fucker, how am I to read your face except that I see it?” A hesitation, and you push through and say it. “Please.”

His turn to hesitate, one hand flexing, fingers tapping on his thigh. He reaches up to do as you ask and his hand stops, hangs there by his face, drifts back to his lap. “Yeah, I get that. Thing is, I’d kinda like some parity here. If I get hella vulnerable for you, is it just me? What are you gonna do to join me in the Land of Awkwardness and Discomfort?”

Staring at him, you let disbelief show on your face, spread your hands to say, _How much more can you ask than you’ve already had this night?_

Jaw set, he shakes his head once. “Nope, that’s not gonna do it. Don’t try to tell me your guard’s down right now. Not sure it’s been down once this whole night, you’ve been suspicious and watchin’ me the whole time-- which makes sense,” he adds in fairness. “I understand that. But don’t tell me to let you in unless you’re willing to do the same.”

Brother sees straight through your dissembling. Right useful it would be to have a palemate as can do that, you think, but it's less so at present. “Who’s to be courting who, here,” you grumble. Just and good it is that each should court the other, in truth; your reluctance stems not from lack of interest at it but from certainty that once more you will misstep and mayhap go too far. “Well enough, then, leave them be.” Hardly fair, though, him full guarded and covered when you're-- “If it’s parity you seek, you could be at removing your upper thorax covering.”

His head tilts, then he shrugs and pulls it off over his head without dislodging the brightness-shields. You look him over. Few notable scars, no grubscars of course, pectoral nubs but no gill slits, dud or otherwise, and no pebbling to indicate thicker skin over his sides or the tops of his shoulders. Fuck, hornless are so fucking weird.

You have no motherfucking idea what you’re doing.

Courting you are little experienced in, yet somehow you had the thought on you that it'd make little matter, you'd know what to do. Now, at the point of it, your mind is nervous-empty. Hoping he'll make the next move, you sit mute staring at him until he raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry, bro, but my telepathy happens to be offline at the moment, so you’re gonna have to give me a verbal clue on this courting thing. How’s the whole thing work?”

Frantically you get your thought on to what you've heard or seen of pale courtship. Unfortunately most all that comes up is from pale porn, where serendipity takes hold and leads the just-met pair into the most intimate realms without apparent second thought. Already this night the two of you have gotten a stronger taste of that than you would have preferred, but what of the middle ground, between intimacy and a stranger's distance? Where’s that even to be lying?

“Uh, Makara? Granted, this wouldn’t be the first time the sight of a half-naked Strider struck someone wordless, but I will admit I wasn’t expecting it here.”

That at least you can answer. Rolling your eyes, you snort at him.

He tilts you a half smile and keeps watching you a moment, then nods to himself. “If you can give me five, ten minutes, I’m just gonna check something out and I’ll be right back. Deal?”

What he’s to be doing in five minutes that’s worthwhile you cannot guess, but you shrug acquiescence anyway. He nods, gets up and goes to sit at the computer again. Motherfuck, he’d best not be making mere excuse in the hope of escaping awkward company. Suspicious and uncertain, you sit and glower between him and your bare feet.

On edge as you are your notion of time is all dragged out of shape, and you've little concept of what span has up and passed you by when he frowns to himself, nods and gets up. "Pretty sure some of this is bullshit," he says, "but we'll see, I guess. Gives us a place to start, anyway. So, you hungry?"

Actually now that he mentions it you are, more than a little, but what the motherfuck? "Do not think to be at distracting me, motherfucker. What had on its urgency so strong just now you had to be all checking on it in the midst of conversation?"

"More like in the midst of staring silently at each other, wasn't it?" he says at you, all calm and self-collected again. "Just thought I'd try a little research, see what kind of tips the internet has to offer. Unfortunately it looks like it's just as unreliable on troll romance as it is on human. Too bad, I was looking forward to becoming a pale Don Juan."

“So what’s it all to be saying?” you say, frowning at him.

“Well, turns out feeding someone is the species-crossing gold standard of masterful relationship-starting techniques, so prepare to be provisioned. Assuming you’re hungry. I'll put in a delivery order, just let me know what you want. I’m getting something too.”

Fair enough, you figure, so you consider the emptiness gnawing at your digestive sack and name your wants to him. He taps away on his phone for a bit, coming back to his place on the seating unit, then looks up and nods at you.

“Done. Give it half an hour or so.”

“What other tips did you get to be at finding?”

He snorts, shakes his head a little. “Whole list of things, everywhere from straight-up disturbingly manipulative to kinda silly to... potentially doable.”

Brows raised, you tilt your head pointedly in curiosity and he raises his brows back at you, leans back in the seating unit.

“Well. On the disturbing end, I don’t plan to follow you around just out of sight on a nightly basis so I can slaughter anyone who looks at you crosswise. Pretty sure you typically don’t need the help anyway. Trading lusus stories might be reasonable in other circumstances, but probably not going to work here.”

“Motherfucking worlds of wicked agreement at that noise, bro,” you growl. No thought do you give your long-vanished lusus these nights, but any reminder of him is yet a resentment and a sourness in you. Little mirth or pleasure that topic would up and bring with it.

Strider watches you a minute, unreadable, then nods. “One moron was advocating for dropping some deep secret on your pale intended right away, something really heavy so they’d feel obligated to stay with you and make it work. Now, I was a manipulative bastard when I was younger and I’m pretty sure even I would’ve balked at that shit, and not just because the logic's shaky. You gotta wait till you’ve got something solid before you go dropping your heavy shit on people or you break it before it even gets started.” He looks away, frowns down at his feet. “Problem is, I can tell the shit that’s gross and stalkery apart from the rest of it, but I got no idea what might look silly or pointless to you that looks reasonable to me, and vice versa. So you’re gonna have to help me out here, let me know what you’re interested in.”

Impatient, you open your mouth to say truth at him, realize the words ready to fall out are _Let me motherfucking touch you_ , and snap it shut again. All manner of too forward, that is, makes you look desperate, you can feel your face coloring to think on it. You do, though, you want him gentled and unstrung, sprawled in a pile with his face all bared for you, bright eyes dazed and half-lidded and him purring fit to shake the walls... do hornless purr? No certainty on it do you have one way or another, but you are well sure getting on your fantasies while he sits so near is atrocious uncouth. Shaking it off, you say, “Tell at me your list, then, so as I can judge.”

There’s another pause with his face turned to you, his lips just barely quirked, and you bristle in suspicion that he’s at making note of your blush. If he speaks word on it or twitches that eyebrow at you it will go poorly for him.

Wisely, he does no such thing. “‘kay. Some of the ideas suggested therein were as follows: brush each other’s hair, play some truth or dare, sit close together and trade claw care, play never have I ever, lend your bro your sweater, tell him how you feel so you’ll always be together--”

To start you thought it was all at being coincidence, but no, that is purpose-made rhyme and rhythm singing into your auriculars, fresh mirthful noise what spreads a grin across your face before you can catch it back. Full appreciative, you listen close as he gets through his list in fine style. “Motherfuck,” you say when he finishes it off, “had no notion to me that a brother could slam those delirious whimsical lyrics at will! That’s some righteous tight rhyme you got all at you.”

“You like rap?” he says, giving you an actual motherfucking smile, however small.

“I have all appreciation on me for the great slam poetical art! Been known to string together a lurid line or two myself at times.”

His smile stretches by a hair or two as he quirks an eyebrow. “What are the chances we could conduct the rest of this courtship entirely in rap?”

It takes little consideration before you shake your head reluctantly. “Not good. I’m well unpracticed just now, nor is this aught that should be stumbled over. Powerful enough chance of mistake and misapprehensions without that we add further handicap on it.” Could be as you're not eager to show off your floundering at it, too, at least just yet while you’re both still new and unsure of each other.

“Ah. Point,” he says, face blank again. “So, thoughts on that list?”

“I’ve no patience for wiggler games just now, mayhap some later night. That mention of, uh, face painting, though,” you say, casual as you can. “Was that just a chance-made rhyme you added, or a suggestion you found for true?”

His eyebrows lift at you. “It was a suggestion, yeah. Probably wouldn’t have thought of that, myself, seems kind of random.”

“Nothing random about it, motherfucker,” you say, frowning. “Touching another’s face to spread the paint, all gentle and careful, letting another touch yours, the trust to let them near your eyes-- it’s not a thing as you’d allow any but the closest.”

“Guess I can see that. Alright, that pings you, cool. Not sure if we’ve got any face paint, though, and if we do it’s old as balls--”

“No issue as to that, my brother.” From out your sylladex you grab a paint pot and hold it up, then tuck it away again. “Happens I keep that shit on me.”

“Really.” He’s quiet a moment, maybe watching you, then says, “Seems like an odd item to keep at hand all the time.”

“Not to some.”

Another pause. “I noticed you strife clubkind, too. Juggling clubs, right? Taken all together, it’s less than subtle. You might wanna work on that.”

So unexpected quick he is to get his comprehension on. No point in pretense, then, not that it’s your native inclination in the first place. “I don’t aim to be subtle,” you growl. “I aim to be at keeping the faith and doing naught out in public view that’s illegal.”

“Which is to say if someone else starts something over the generously dropped clues, you can feel justified finishing it. You don’t necessarily put much effort into staying out of trouble.” His lips purse all thoughtful at you as he frowns.

It is pure instinct to bristle all up at him, though you keep your hiss quiet. “Motherfucker, we are well and far off track. Had you desire to be at courting of me, or preference to criticize and provoke?”

“Maybe my preference is that you don’t get taken in by the legislacerators, or jumped in a back alley by a crew of pissed-off warmbloods,” he says, tight and clipped.

“Such I’ve survived before and will again,” you bristle back at him, shutting down fierce the memories that try to rise at the mention. “Little new would that be to me.” His jaw clenches and you note it, stop yourself, take a breath to consider. “Brother, why’s this hypothetical got you all up in your agitation, though? At my station it happens common enough, for any reason or none, and scant use to be worrying on it. Besides, I got in good supply the sense the Messiahs gave me, I’m in no sort the one to be slapping on my sacred mask of mirth and strolling out the door.”

“You’re fuckin’ kidding me, you’re sayin’ you got common sense? Guess it must be some other dude who just whipped out some illegal shit and waved it in the face of a guy he just fuckin’ met.” His body holds the same relaxed pose it did but his limbs are rigid, fingers digging into the back and arm of the seating unit. It is self-control that keeps him still and will not let him shift, you can see it, though you cannot get your understanding on of why.

“It’s to being your belief I’d do as much around any other?” Aggrieved, you shake your head at him. “Bro, get at adjusting your assumptions. If you’re getting up and on your pale courtship, you’ve little thought to make at turning me in.”

“You don’t know me,” he persists. “What if you were wrong?”

The seating unit is sized for hornless, not trolls of your size. Even sitting at either end as the pair of you are, when you stretch out a slow, careful arm you can reach him without even leaning, and gently lay the backs of curled fingers against his cheek. You make sure to keep the movement slow enough he could shift aside if he chose, but he freezes instead of startling.

“All things possible as they are, still, I’m not wrong,” you tell him quiet. By the way he’s fixed facing you, your guess is he’s staring, maybe wide-eyed, and you wish you could see it. His skin flushes warmer under your touch and by the shift of his brows he’s trying to figure what you mean by this. Your fingers stroke once, then pull away. “Either way, this is no discussion to be at having on a first date. Let’s get to courting first and if you’ve argument to make at my way of going we’ll strife that out once we’re firm and secure in our quadrant.”

“Fair enough,” he says a minute later, and has to swallow when his voice cracks.

You look away, giving him space to get back up in his chill, stretch your neck thoughtfully to one side then the other. “Well, back with your list then. Did I note some word about massage again?”

“Yeah, the suggestion was hand or face massage. I’d assumed that would be redundant, but if it sounds good we can do that, too. Which do you wanna do first, paint or massage?”

“Massage,” you decide. That way you can build up to the painting, get a feel for how all this pale fuckery is meant to be working. (See if you can manage it without making a heinous embarrassment of yourself.)

“‘kay. You want me to start with your hands or with your face?”

“Mine? No, brother, you already gave plenty such at me. I was thinking as it should be time for turnabout, if a brother was willing to teach how.”

He frowns at you. “Wait, I thought _I_ was supposed to be courting _you_ , not the other way around.”

“So make at me your trust and let me motherfucking touch you!” Shit. Exactly as you had intention not to say. “If, uh, that is, if that’s good with you.”

His eyebrows are arched up high but the twist to his mouth looks more like bemusement than displeasure. “Sounds fine I guess, but I still think you’ve got this courting thing backwards.”

Pulling off the fingerless gloves he wears, he offers you a bare palm and you move closer to take it, ginger and cautious of your claws. Of course you were well aware previous of how slight he is by you, barely taller than some wiry oliveblood, but his hand is so small to yours it makes you come over queer for a moment, like you’re seducing someone as hasn’t even hit second pupation yet. The callouses on his palm and fingers are enough to prove otherwise, though.

You try at kneading the muscles and he starts on instructing you in the technique. In all, it’s not as difficult as you’d figured. Finding the right pressure gives you trouble at first, not too light, yet not bruising hard, but you get it with practice and study. When you’re just up and using thumbs it’s simple enough to keep your claws out of the way, and he tells at you what to dwell on and where to stroke the pressure. As you work, you catch the tension fading out of his shoulders, his limbs, his not-quite-blank face, and it feels real motherfucking good. Righteous pride you take in your new skill and by the time you switch hands you are clicking quiet to yourself, all manner of smug and self-satisfied.

So calm are you both that when a pounding on the door comes you don’t even startle. “That’s some of the food,” he says, pushing himself up as you let go his hand. “Wonder if yours or mine came first?” Shirtless as he is, he heads for the door and you crane around to keep an eye on things. The door opens and annoyed voices come spilling in. Strider’s blocking your view of the speakers, but one sounds high enough for a hornless female and the other is rattling and grumbling low.

“Holy shit, y’all, don’t make me ash it up between you.”

“Oh, gross,” says the hornless voice, and the other just hisses.

“This ain’t a prank, no need for a turf war,” Strider tells at them. “Give me the food, take my money, and you can both go about the rest of your night.”

Another quiet exchange and he elbows the door shut, brings over two takeout bags and hands you one. You sort through your foodstuffs and set to devouring them right quick, savory and spiced with your hunger. By the time you're sated and mopping up the last of the grubsauce, he's long done and watching you.

“So. What’s next?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the pile gets high and the pale gets deep.

You've figured out what’s missing now, though you're unsure what there is to do about it. “We got no kind of pile at us here,” you say, looking around. “Any chance at that?”

“Shit, yeah, the pile is mandatory, isn’t it?” Strider says. “Forgot about that. Not sure I’ve got the right materials on hand-- what would you say are the specs on an ideal pile?”

“Whatever the fuck you got lying around and plenty of, motherfucker. No tricky precision of science on it, that shit just happens, simple-like.”

His head turns to the corner where boxes are stacked on shelves, weird little fuzzy shapes poking out of some of them. “Hmm,” he says.

After some thought, he gets at building the pile on his respite slab. First he goes all flashing around clearing out the block, whisking away toys and stained towels and filled pails, opens a window to let out the funk of pailing pheromones, and then he starts assembling the pile. You're none too sure about his chosen site and make query on it. He says as how he knows it looks like a pailing platform but it’s more like a ‘coon for hornless, so it shouldn’t be weird. Still seems fair motherfucking queer to you, but… hornless, after all. Could be some compromise is in order. You make clear that the fuzzy stuffed critters are fine by you, but no motherfucking pailing toys are to go into the pile. He gives you an odd look, opens his mouth, then changes his mind and just nods.

In the end it's not a big pile, but sufficient, made of little bright-colored big-nosed things and hats and way too many fucking blankets. As the two of you settle back against it you feel a mite of disappointment that there’s no edges in it, it’s too soft, and remind yourself stern that you shouldn’t expect a brother to get it perfect first time, and him hornless and all. He built you a pile, that’s the motherfucking point.

The food arriving interrupted you rubbing at his second hand, so you take it and get to finishing what you were doing. He’s got some tension on him to start with, unused to a pile or maybe to being so close against a brother, (his respite slab is none too wide), but it fades off as you work digits into the muscles of his hand until he’s lying there calm, if not slack and peaceful as you’d like. When you finish, you just kinda... hold on, stroking at his palm.

“So, what’s the haps, bro?” you say. “I got any kind of skill on me yet, you being to trust me maybe?”

“Feels good,” he mumbles. “Why’d y’ stop?” Then he seems to catch up to what you were at saying and all that relaxed chill gives out to subtle tension again. “Trust you? Obviously, to a certain extent. Why?”

“I’m all up and finished of your hands. Thought maybe I could get at soothing on your face, like as your list said.”

“You’re going to be painting my face anyway, isn’t that even better? You seemed excited about it.”

“It’s good, sure enough, and so it should not be rushed. But talk at me, brother. What’s got your harsh on at it? You want as I should let be, I will.”

The silence stretches a minute before he sighs. “Nah, it’s fine. Should I move, or does this work?”

“Just so is motherfucking fine by me, make as you’re comfortable.”

“I’m fine,” he says, pulls off his brightness-shields, folds them in his lap and closes his eyes.

In all honesty he does not look to be having his comfort and relaxation on but rather braced, on edge. It’s all at being your job now to undo that, soothe him back to his chill, so you take a breath and reach out.

It seems wholly unwise to go right for his face with him strung taut, so you lay a hand on his shoulder first, rub a little. A piece of the waiting strain seems to ease off him at your touch and he settles just a mite. You rub a bit deeper, work into the muscles and watch the way he calms by degrees. Both hands on his shoulders, you move all gradual in and up the sides of his neck, pressing and stroking, and count it good that his breath stays slow. As you reach the join of jaw to neck, pressing gentle beside the bone, something shifts in him. It's not that his body goes rigid, nothing so obvious, nor does his breathing change. In truth, you can't name why you think as he's no longer at his ease, and so you doubt your instinct.

Your hands move up to his jaw, thumbs press and stroke a little lighter than on the rest, testing for the right pressure. Working over the jaw and up to his cheekbones, you rub away the tension, then work back to his hairline in front of his ears. He lies still and calm, unprotesting, all peace to look at… but you can feel it’s mere pretense, and you are all at doing your motherfucking best but some miracles are beyond your skill: his ease has fled and you cannot fetch it back. Nor have you any notion on you of why until you think on it a bit.

He was all manner of reluctance previous to be bare-faced before you, and little though a face rub would up and work with his brightness-shields to contend with, that’s no reason he’d have any more ease at removing them. All the while you’ve worked at his shoulders and face he’s kept his eyes firm closed; he will not look at you unshielded. Then too, could be as that’s adding to the problem, since he can’t up and watch what you’re doing. Here you are with fingers and claws getting on their busy work all near his eyes and mouth and soft places and he will not allow that he can keep an eye on things.

So what’s to do? Unwise to up and tell at an intended moirail as he should stop being stupid and open his motherfucking oculars, get his ease on; unwise and pointless to boot. Fuck if it doesn’t sting that you should fail at this, though, that your courting is faulty. Naught you can do for it to make a brother trust you at that deep level with you both so new and strange. So then...

Struck by a thought, you slide your hands into his hair and rub at his scalp. He was all to doing that for you before and it felt as upright miraculous as the rest of his work on you. Could be it’ll feel as pleasing to him, and easier to relax under than your hands on his face.

“You can be at putting on your brightness-shields again,” you say.

“They’ll just get in the way,” he says shortly.

“Won’t either, not when I’m working in your hair.”

“Thought you wanted to do my face.”

“Not a thing I’m set on, not with a brother so up in his tension at it. The point’s to do a thing what we might both get on enjoyment of, isn’t it?”

His eyes are open now as he frowns at you. “I’m not-- you can do my face, it’s not a problem.”

Meeting his gaze, you hold silent, thumbs and fingers working through his hair, rubbing all firm and careful. He blinks and his brows ease from their frown, so in this at least your touch has good effect. A second later he remembers what he’s at and the frown deepens again, but it seems to take some effort.

“A problem it is, and reasonable enough at that,” you tell at him, “and I aim not to make problems at you. No desire on me to put you any further out of your comfort than need be.”

That brings his brows snapping down. “I can handle a little _discomfort_.”

“Motherfuck, bro, what’s got its nibble on at your pan?” Frowning back, you shake your head at him. “Like this is some kind of trial, some ordeal as you must bear to prove yourself? Fuck no. Why in Messiahs’ mercy would I want to be at causing my… my moirail, my pale intended, discomfort? What are you at?”

“I’m supposed to be courting you,” he says. His eyes widened when you said _moirail_ , and they shift away from yours before he forces them back. “I’m just doing what it takes.”

That sounds in no way to be right and healthy, if he’s willing to push himself so far all in service of someone as would be pleased to have him in discomfort. Something to keep watch on in his other quadrants, maybe, when he sets to filling them. For sure, something to jam on later, once you get to that point.

“Brother, you want to get at doing what it takes?” You hold his gaze, lean in until you’re face to face. “Let me make you feel good.” Then your ears go purple because fuck. That’s a line out of some tawdry pale porno. Still you meet his eyes and will not look away. There’s a point to be made here. “I can’t motherfucking be at earning your trust if you’re to be having all your strength of endurance on just to bear what I do. If I do what you like so as that you can get up in your true relaxation by it, then I show myself worthy of trust, all right and proper. Can a brother get his follow on of that?”

Still frowning, he stares at you a long minute before picking up his brightness-shields and sliding them back on his face. “Yeah. I follow.”

He sounds a mite clipped still and you raise a brow at him. “Your pan still sounds nibbled.”

That wins a snort and his mouth curls up at one end. “Yeah,” he says, letting out a long sigh. “Problem. I might be better at enduring than relaxing.”

“Might be as I can help you with that,” you say, giving his half-smile back at him. “Just you lie still while I get my practice on and we’ll see if your relaxation doesn’t show up of its own self.”

He shrugs his brows at you and shifts in the pile, resettling. You run both hands through his hair, which is spiked up stiff with something, and then you set to rubbing again. Your hands look massive against his head and it makes you get your care on, all cautious with your claws and pressure.

It doesn’t take long before it's working on him again, your touch easing him, gentling him down. Again you can’t say what it is as changes to give at you the knowledge he’s slowly peacing out. No shift does he make what you can see, nor does he sigh or purr, but you can feel it as his stillness goes deeper somehow. He calms, he quiets, every last piece of watching and wary readiness slipping all gradual away, and under your hands he finally motherfucking relaxes.

It feels like surrender, but instead of calling up triumph it shakes you. That he should trust you so, that he should give himself into your hands this way, _fuck_ , it feels like a big hand reaching into your thorax and squeezing. The inside of you feels bruised, shock-tender and almost painful, and you cannot stop watching his peaceful face.

After a time you lift his head with one hand so as to rub at the back of it. His neck tenses as he automatically tries to hold it up himself and you rattle-click at him stern. “Don’t you get to making effort now, lit- brother, I’ll take the weight no trouble, you keep your peace on.” Fuck, almost slipped up there. Few enough folk in your life as merit the closeness of a fond-name-- one, to be exact, and you can’t be to calling your moirail the same as you call your descendant. Too soon for that anyway.

The brother snorts at you. “You say that like it’s easy,” he sighs, but he relaxes slow back into your hands until you can feel his muscles loose again.

“Seriously though,” he says a few minutes later, “I’m getting the feeling I don’t fully understand what’s actually going on here. Seems like I’m getting the better end of this deal, so why are you enjoying it so much?”

It wasn’t a thing as you were aware was obvious. What’s been showing on your face? “Enjoying it?” you say.

“I assume that’s what the sort of humming purr means, am I wrong?”

Oh. Well, naturally you’re purring, the rhythmic thrum that broadcasts a pile going real motherfucking well, _safe_ and _peace_ and _trusted-close_. Maybe to hornless all purrs sound the same? Or maybe he’s just never had the hearing of this particular one before. Messiahs know you’ve never been at hearing it in your own life outside pale porn flicks. Sure as fuck you never made it yourself.

“You got yourself a fine understatement there, brother,” you tell him. “It has a fair set more meaning to it than that, but in brief, your courtship’s going hella well.”

“But I'm not doing anything for you,” he says, frowning. “Why is that working? I don't get it.”

How do you explain what’s so clear and obvious to you? Thumbs pressing and stroking behind his ears, you think on it a bit. “You… trust yourself to me,” you say finally, quiet. “That’s a thing as not just any motherfucker could get at doing, pale crush or no. Seems like straight up serendipity after all, or close as truth comes to it, and that’s heady stuff.”

He considers that a minute. “So, it may seem like I’m just lying here letting you give me a scalp massage, but in reality I’m carrying out a hella slick pale seduction routine. Nice. Here I always thought troll courtship was difficult, when you just have to get the right quadrant.”

Sure, like this is all at being simple and easy for him. Well, if he wants to make as it's so you can let it pass.

Your hands slide up to the top of his head, get on to working there and he sighs soft, little pleased sound that warms you. Peaceable silence settles between you again for a few minutes before he breaks it.

“Let me know if I'm overstepping here. According to the search results, trading horn rubs is a pretty common pale activity, though probably too intimate for a first date. On the other hand, it occurs to me we might just have blown past normal standards way back there. So, you told me to stay away from your horns before, but I wasn't courting you at that point. If it was just that it ain't the sort of thing you do with a stranger and that'd actually be appealing to you, I could-- or I could not, _relax_ , dude, it was an offer, not a threat.” His hands raise a little, fingers spread all _not reaching for my strife deck_ , safe, harmless.

Taking a breath, you choke off the rattling snarl rising from your thorax, hoping he couldn't hear the panicky edge to it. “Got that knowledge full on me,” you manage in a rough voice, and swallow, trying to keep the snarl away. “Sorry, brother. Had no intention to get my harshness on at you.” Your hands are frozen in his hair, and you make shift to start them moving gentle again. Another careful breath and you almost sound calm. “For all it's a pleasing offer, I got a wicked dislike for any touch there, even my own fronds.”

“That won't work, then,” he says, easy. “No big, I just wondered.” He’s quiet a minute, then, “I'm feeling pretty laid-back here, and it looks like you could use some more attention, get you all relaxed again. Wanna trade places, I can do your hands?”

It settles you some, lets you draw breath easier. He has no want to be at pressing you on the subject.

How motherfucking pathetic is it, though, that you should need such delicacy in the first place? You're so shy of any thought on your horns, timorous as a hurt pupa all wailing for its lusus. What kind of sorry, chittering coward goes all frozen and fear-huddled at the merest mention of hornrubs? Can't even muster the self control to rein in your own mind, it's running rampant, throwing fragments at you, _blood on the dirty pavement, snarling faces, weight on your back--_

Motherfuck, it puts you straight at the edge of holy fury that what was taken from you was more than you even realized. You never figured you'd have a moirail, not more than the briefest pale hookup, for sure not the strange true hornless serendipity it seems you've up and found. You never figured you'd be in a place to want anyone’s hand on your horns, far less to ache with the wanting of that touch like you do right now. How motherfucking _dare_ they have put on you the fear that keeps that want unanswered?

Your teeth are bared, your hands gone still again. Your breath comes in a rattling rasp. You can barely see for the images crowding behind your eyes and it's all you can do not to hiss, snap your fangs, make your righteous wrath _well motherfucking known_ \--

“Hey.” A warm hand touches your cheek. The gentleness of it shocks you back to where you're at, staring down at a brown face that's not quite blank behind the brightness-shields. Lips pursed, brows slightly drawn, he looks… thoughtful, maybe. Considering what the fuck you're at with your hissing and snarling all in a brother's face, more than like.

“Fuck,” you say heavily, dropping your hands from his head to clench in your lap. “I'd best make apologies at you, my brother, my thinkpan’s got some disorderly rebellion to it just now or I'd be surer in my courtesy. I make no excuses, it is full uncouth to be--”

“Chill,” he says over you. His hand moves on your face, stroking soft. Papping you. _Oh_. Your voice cuts out as rigid muscles all through your frame go slack and easy, you can smell the spike of your own pale pheromones in the air.

“No prob, just relax,” he tells at you, quiet. “Didn't mean to stir anything up, but it looks like I did. I'm guessing it wasn't about potential hand massages.”

You shake your head and he nods.

“Figured.” He’s still at it, hand moving over your cheek, your jaw, thumb rubbing all cautious between your brows. Lids heavy, you struggle not to keel over on him, but you're melting already, purring in rusty bursts. Holy Messiahs, his motherfucking _hands_ , his _touch_ \-- you want to curl up on him, and it's a sorrow to you he's so much smaller. (Yet he is strong and skilled and fierce; even small and hornless as he is you can trust yourself to him and he has full capacity to defend you.)

“Go on, dude, relax.” He guides you back against the pile beside him and you go slack, languid and chirping contentment. He's silent for a long while, just tracing the contours of your face, muscle over bone, stroking from brow down to jaw over and again as you purr and purr.

“So,” he says eventually, more hushed than you've heard him, all softened with the mood. “Looks like something got to you pretty good, there. No pressure, but if you want to lay down some rude facts on me, feel free, yeah?” In his voice is simple pale care, maybe more plain than he realizes. For once he has no wish to push, but only to understand.

A shudder goes through you. Your eyes closed all of their own some time back, you are open and helpless as a grub before him, and little as you like the memories it is only right and proper that your moirail should know the haps that passed with you, surely?

“Ten sweeps back,” you say, voice unwonted soft with the feel of his hands on you, “I was just off the sea with my first pail filled.” Just off the sea and all lost and bewildered you were, after sweeps from wigglerhood on with a wicked raucous seadweller sister and her crew, not a one of whom thought themselves any less than a rank below motherfucking royalty.

The sister herself had a certain amount of reason behind her claims of exalted heritage, as you discovered, given the particular shade of red-violet that mingled with your purple in that pail. Even now you're not clear if what the pair of you had was red or black or no quadrant at all, but for a perigee or so it was a riotous bitchtits miracle. Then she came into port and kicked you off her ship with the pail, told you to be a good buoy and make sure she'd have descendants. You had too much bitterness all in you at the abrupt expulsion to be pleased at obedience, but. What the mirthless motherfuck else were you supposed to up and do with it?

“I made at taking the pail to the drones’ contribution station and then I went to get on my discovery of food and lodging. But I was long unused to land customs, and I had wholly forgot that here I was counted among the lowest. I have never had much skill on me,” you say dryly, “for humbling myself.”

“Well, shit, when you're as overflowing with badassery, charisma and scintillating wit as we are, humility is just a straight up lie. And you and me, we value honesty too highly to perpetuate that bullshit,” Bro says at you. His fingers stroke along your cheekbone back and forth, moving slow, and you chirr softly in response. He swallows, shakes his head once, quick, like to get his thoughts back in order. “So you ran into trouble. Stepped into the wrong joint?”

“Hah, I got not even that far! I motherfucking _walked_ wrong, my brother. Held myself too straight and easy, did not lower my gaze to any warmblood’s looking. And it was well and truly noted, up and brought me attention as I had no intent to get. Four of them there were, stopped me by an alley, and when I made no deferential reply to their uncouth noise, the olive was first to aggress. Spared me the wicked difficulty of choosing which to attend to first.”

An olive, two teals and a yellow, there were, and none as large as you even with your mere eight sweeps. Almost you laughed that they thought to come against you, and then in the midst of the fight the yellow made use of her psionics, knocked you into a motherfucking wall. Staggered and enraged, you reacted with the ability you were hatched with.

“I was pressed hard, and lashed out at them with the power of my pan, sang fear and horror all down their backs until they twitched with every breath.” It wasn't enough. Back on the ship, you’d been accustomed to one pulse of chucklevoodoos driving away any opponent who pressed you too hard, or at least pushing them back long enough for you to get crew at your side. Here, you had none to guard your back, and though your assailants faltered, they did not flee. Enmeshed as they were in a living daymare, they could yet think and act and knew you were the cause. When one managed to get behind you, leaping up to ride your back, his little hands made wicked quick work closing those abominable things around your horns.

Drawing breath to continue, you find it hitches and catches in your closing windchute. This next piece you have no ease in speaking, though silence at it will make it no less a thing what happened.

“So. They. Had limiters, though why they'd keep such things on them I cannot be to guessing. And…” you wave at your horns, giving up on speaking it aloud.

“They put them on you, shut off your psionic attack.” He lets out a slow breath. “That… seems like it would be disorienting, yeah? And they go on your horns, so… shit, it could mess up your sense of balance, your kinesthetic sense, spatial-- Goddamn, that must have put you at a sick disadvantage. That is some underhanded bullshit.”

Eyes closed, you nod. The limiters closed on your horns and your legs went out from under you as the whole world fell in on itself. Nothing was where it was meant to be, not your body or the pavement beneath you, and no movement tracked as it should. Your limbs were there and not-there at once, and even a shift of weight as you lay on your motherfucking face felt straight up Messiahs-forsaken _wrong_. Your chucklevoodoos shut off like your pan just up and died, the sense of the trolls around you, their fear and rage and the taste of their thoughts all vanishing like the piece of you what touched them got sliced off, wiped away.

Under influence of the mere memory, your digestive sac is knotting up on itself and your breathing shakes, your muscles are a quivering mutiny and will not still. Shameful weakness is allowable in the company of your moirail, yet still do you feel small and contemptible in this moment. It is not a sensation you get your familiarity on with any too often. No warmblood’s sneer, no insult or even upright attack could make you feel so, but this admission of a battle lost, of what was done to you-- you are admitting weakness you despise. However different hornless are, the truth remains; the line between pity and disdain has a thickness you cannot guess at, and you fear to slip over it unknowing.

“Hey,” he says quiet, stroking your face once more, “you doing all right?”

You nod again, trying at control of your breathing, your limbs, to no notable success. Of course you're well, you just have to regain mastery of yourself as has somehow slid from your grasp.

“I'm sorry shit went down like that,” he tells at you, and you go still. “It sucks. Sounds like they figured they couldn't win without some twisted sneak tactics. Not much comfort, I guess, if unparalleled badassery means your opponents refuse to fight fair.”

“I motherfucking _lost_ ,” you grate out, hoarse around the lump of old rage and misery stuck in your gullet.

His hand stops moving. “It's not a moral failing,” he says, sharp all of a sudden. “People lose, it's a thing that happens. You didn't even fucking screw up, they were just bigoted assholes who made sure they had the advantage. You can't beat yourself up for something that's not your fault. --Hey, check it out.”

Your eyes open to see him pointing at a spot on his side, between two thoracic struts. There's a small scar there, pale against the brown.

“See this? That's a memento from losing a fight that absolutely _was_ my fuckin’ fault. I went up against these four carapacians, three little guys and one about three times my width. They told me to get out of their way and leave, and I had no fuckin’ stake in it, I coulda just walked off except I was a cocky little shit who didn't like bein’ told what to do.” His lips are tight and his voice has gone hard, your awkward pale suitor nowhere to be seen. “So I pulled my sword. I figured the big guy was the one I had to keep an eye on, and then the short skinny dude shanked me and there I am bleedin’ on the ground while they walk away. They didn't even take my wallet, just got me out of the way and left. Fuckin’ humiliating.”

Such a little mark it left you could've overlooked it entire. To a troll it'd be barely more than an annoyance, but now you think on it, hornless are like to be more delicate.

When you reach to touch it he twitches, then holds himself still under your hand. Your two fingertips together are enough to hide the mark, erase it from view if not from his hide, and you leave them there like to shield him from what's already past and done.

He lost. As strong as he is, as clever and as quick, yet he can lose a fight. And still bear to speak on it later, though from the sound of it not with any love for the memory.

“What all happened after?” you ask.

“What, you mean with them, or--”

“You got stabbed, motherfucker! Was what followed so little matter as to go unmentioned?”

He shrugs one shoulder at you, a bare lift and drop, minimal and controlled as all his expression strives to be. “Pretty much. No big, it was my own fucking fault anyway. Hit the hospital up for room and board a little while, got fixed up, left.” His face shifts, brows tightening, and he speaks lower. “Dave flipped the fuck out. First time I'd gotten hurt that he wasn't nearby when it happened. Dumbass blamed himself, but he was like twelve, what the fuck was he gonna do? I was the asshole who didn't think about what'd happen to him if I didn't come back. Shit, it never even crossed my mind I could lose, I was such a moronic little--”

“Shoosh, now, no more of that,” you say all stern, putting fingers over his mouth. He twitches in startlement. “No use to go tearing your own self down, there's plenty others as will do it for you.” A pause to make your point, then you let your frond drop from him.

He holds silence a minute and you cannot read the meaning in it, he is opaque and unknowable to you. “Right,” he says then. “Anyway, this wasn't supposed to be about me. I didn't let you finish. Unless you didn't want to tell me the rest, I get that, got no attachment to hearing anything you'd rather not discuss.”

Suddenly weary, you let your eyes close again. Messiahs preserve you, motherfucker is so _pushy_ , even when he's at meaning not to be. You get thought on as to whether there's more you're willing to say, and let him wait on you.

*

It's not exactly news to you that you're shit at interpersonal stuff, and yet it keeps surprising you the number of ways you can fuck this up. He opened up enough to tell you about a seriously traumatic experience and you responded by making it all about you. Of course you did.

He's just lying there, eyes closed, heavy brows pulled down, and you have no idea if you've seriously pissed him off or if he's thinking about something or what. What if he thinks you were trying to one-up him? ‘Boo-hoo, some dickheads cornered and incapacitated you because you're low-caste, but of course that utterly terrifying and degrading episode doesn’t matter compared to _my_ experience; _I_ got _hurt_. Like, there was blood and everything!’

God. Just. Fuck you, and fuck your complete inability to imitate a functional person with some degree of social awareness and human kindness.

Finally he speaks. “Not much more to tell,” he says. “I dropped hard once those forsaken things were on me, all bewildered. So little control I had over my own movement, my motherfucking limbs…” He swallows. His voice wavers slightly and your stomach twists.

Probably you shouldn't hunt down the assholes who left him like this and make them pay. You really want to, though. Sure, you said you didn't plan to kill whoever looked at him sideways, but you didn't promise shit about people who actually hurt him...

It seemed to help him before, when you were getting all touchy-feely on his face; maybe you should do that again? If he's mad at you now, would that be unwelcome, an imposition? Fuck it, he can damn well tell you if it is. If you're gonna do this weird-ass human moirail thing you're gonna do it right.

You put your hand on his cheek and he takes a sharp breath, tensing. For a minute you think you fucked up, and then you realize; he's pressing into your touch almost desperately, eyes still shut, like you're grounding him or something. Carefully you stroke a bit, thumb rubbing along his cheekbone, and he lets out a slow sigh, long body going limp. Your heart does something fluttery and totally unnecessary.

Jesus, it sounds stupid but you swear you've had sex on this bed without getting as intimate with someone as you are with this troll right now. You're not sure you've been this intimate with _anyone_ before. Maybe Jake. Shit, you're not thinking about Jake now.

“So little control I had,” Makara starts again, “I could make no real defense when they went for my horns. They…”

He takes a controlled, deliberate breath and you have to cut in. “Is this-- do you actually _want_ to tell me this shit? Because it looks hella distressing and that seems like something a moirail would try to avoid. Maybe it sounded like I was panting for the grisly details of your pain and trauma, but that's not-- Don't tell me anything you don't want to, is what I'm trying to say.”

He opens his eyes and looks at you. “It pain you to hear?”

“No, that's not the-- I mean it's not fun, but that's not a problem. I've heard shit like this before, I can handle it, it's not like you're shattering my carefree worldview. I just.” You stop, take a breath to gather your coherence again. “It seems like you're having to relive it, and that sucks. That's all.”

“Better with a kind touch all on me than the first time round,” he says quietly, and. That. Just sort of leaves you wordless. Your hand keeps stroking his face.

“It's a tale with a quick end, in any case,” he continues. “Grabbed my horns, triggered my motherfucking reflex like the cowardly unholy scum they were. To my good fortune, they were all full susceptible to the surrender pheromones and grew pacified enough to leave me be soon after.”

“Wait. They were pacified by your pheromones? I thought that was only a thing in movies and shit. It's not a myth?”

“In no way, my brother. It's got honest veracity at it, sure enough. Force motherfucking submission on a set of trolls and a good many of them are like to put out pacifying stuff, though what strength it might have on varies. Now it's true some folk there are as have less response to it, no matter the strength, and can carry on unpacified with all their harshness intact. I had some luck at me that day so as that my attackers were the responsive kind.”

“...Huh,” is all you manage.

“There's the tale in whole,” he says, one shoulder shifting up in a shrug.

He looks more at ease the longer you run your hand over his face, which is good, because you were feeling pretty fucking guilty to be forcing him to talk through such a shitty incident when it's been a rough night to start with. The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes while you keep your hand moving. You're kind of amazed at the fact that not only is he letting you do this, he’s _enjoying_ it, slowly relaxing. That soft whirring rumble starts up again in his chest and you decide it’s gotta be a troll thing; if it was up to him he wouldn’t be dropping his guard this much, but biology isn’t giving him a choice.

“So,” he says, sounding almost dreamy, “we both lost, yet each survived that loss and have but a token for reminder now.”

“Oh yeah? You still got some scars?” He didn’t mention that before, but hell, it was a fight. No surprise he got hurt.

He frowns at you, then snorts and his lips quirk up. “In a manner of motherfucking speech.” One big hand goes up to his head, pulls thick bushy hair away from the base of one horn, and what the fuck?

What. The fuck.

There aren’t too many options as to what that thick metal ring could be. It ain’t decorative, that’s for real fucking sure.

“Why the fuck are you still wearin’ that?” you demand, staring at the industrial-strength psionic limiter.

“As though I’ve any sort of choice up on me about it,” he growls back. The purring has stopped. “They don’t come off, motherfucker. You think we haven’t expended all our effort on it, church, kin and clade? Some sort of joining the cursed things went and made to the hornstuff and will not be budged.”

“Holy shit,” you say, feeling sort of numb. This is not okay by you. Sure, the folks that jumped him weren't exactly out for a fair fight, so yeah, forcing a temporary handicap on their victim makes sense, but fucking _perma-bonding_ limiters to his horns? Shit is vast amounts of uncool. And illegal by anyone but a legislacerator, incidentally; permanent limiters are supposed to be mad restricted. You naturally assumed street toughs like that would only be able to get their hands on the normal kind.

“So, uh. Wow. I guess you got used to the feelin’, huh,” you comment, before coming to your senses. Fuck, you're so out of it right now you're not even watching your mouth. He'd be completely within his rights to punch you in the face; you almost hope he does, that was such an incredibly stupid, graceless thing to say.

He just snorts in amusement. “That I motherfucking did, swift enough. Not much choice in that either.”

You don't mean to say it, it just sort of falls out of your mouth. “I'm so sorry. Jesus, I'm so fuckin’ sorry, none of that should have happened to you, it's totally unbe-fuckin’-lievable the shit you've had to deal with, I just can't even-- _fuck_.” You're not breathing right, and you shove your hands over your face to try to recover, fingers sliding under your shades to press against your closed eyes. Fuck, this is messing with your head, you've got to pull it together. He's gonna start thinking you're pathetic, and not in the good way. The fuck is even wrong with you, nothing should affect you this strongly, for sure not something that didn't even happen to you.

A cool hand clasps your shoulder and the bed shifts as Makara moves, sitting up beside you. “Hush, brother,” he says in that deep voice, a soft rumble starting again under the words. “No sorrow all on you for suffering long gone by, let that shit go. I'm well enough just now, no fear nor grief weighing at me, so no more should you get your trouble on over it.”

“Right,” you say, voice tighter than you intend. “Got it, yeah.” Your breathing is still unsteady and if you don't get a handle on yourself you're going to start shaking. Yeah, what happened to him is horrible and shitty, but it's also way in the past, like he said. Way back there, ten sweeps ago he said, so he was a fucking _teenager_ , Christ. And of course there's also what happened tonight, which, y’know, he seems to have handled pretty well, not that he had any fucking choice whatsoever, which seems to be an ongoing theme for him. No choice, just really bad shit happening to him all the time that he _has to_ _deal with_. You feel sick.

What the fuck are you doing? Even when you try, you've never excelled at empathizing with people, you always have to figure out what they must feel by guess and deduction instead of just knowing. Now here you are, reacting to Makara’s past crisis like it's yours, no thought required.

This is pathetic, you've got to scrape up some self-control, get back your composure. _He’s_ the only one who has a right to flip out over this, and since he seems to have gotten over it right now, you had damn well better.

An arm lands across your shoulders, and then another curls around your chest, pulls you up against him. Your shoulder presses into his bare chest, grey skin cool against yours and holy shit this is really close and personal here.

He's hugging you. Why is he hugging you.

Jane hugs you hello and goodbye. Roxy hugs you when she's feeling particularly exuberant. Striders do not hug, but you sometimes soften enough to return a chill one-armed squeeze, which seems to please the girls. That is pretty much the limit of your hugging experience.

“Shoosh, my sweetest diamond brother,” Makara hums against the side of your head. “Get some chill all back up in you, no troubles here. Get your pan on to more peaceful thoughts. You got good things all going on at you, yeah? Dark carnival rising, shit’s downright motherfucking miraculous for us tonight, look what we up and found between us, you and I. No cause for grief this night, palest brother.”

Shit. He's trying to comfort you. You're such an asshole that you're making the guy who's suffered so much bullshit tonight exert himself to try to calm you down. Really excelling at this courtship business, aren't you.

All right, you've got to chill the fuck out, you owe it to him. Just take a few deep breaths and stop thinking about it. No problem.

...how long did it take him to get used to the disorientation? How long to learn how to balance and move again with all the sensory interference? How long to stop trying to use his powers? Is he really okay with it now, or did he have to bury his anger to survive?

It's _so fucking unfair_.

The deep breathing idea is not working out so hot, you feel like you're choking and your eyes are burning-- oh fuck no. No, nope, that's not happening, tears are disinvited to the Strider pad unless they're the involuntary sort like if someone breaks an arm or some shit, and check it out, here you sit with all bones whole and unscathed except the not-being-an-asshole bone, which you were tragically born without. This newfound empathy can fuck right off.

One point of your shades is poking Makara in the shoulder. Turning your head away, you take a slow breath and pull yourself the fuck together. It's a lot easier to do now that you've reached a solid conclusion.

“Sorry,” you mutter, and lean back enough to look him in the face. He cooperatively loosens his hold on you, shaking his head.

“No issue at it, brother-- what's on your mind?”

You explain your new resolution. “I'm going to get those things off you, one way or another. I swear, if I can't find a way to take them off, I'll figure out how to disable them. I will fucking do it, you’re not going to live with those things anymore."

He goes still. “We tried all as we could think of, my brother. Even yet some of what we tried lingers and I get hornaches and itches and motherfucking numb spots crawling across my scalp. Little eagerness to me for any thought of trying the like again.”

“I'm not planning to try the same things again. I'll get the list of what you tried and we'll go from there. I know two brilliant scientists, just for a start, and I've got some ideas myself. I won't do anything you're not comfortable with,” you promise, “don't worry. They're your horns, you get first say.”

He just watches you for a while, eyes narrowed, lips pursed to one side. “As it pleases you, then. But bro, the night creeps on closer to dawn now. You got any taste for one last thing before parting?”

Obviously he doesn't believe you can do it. That's not a problem. He hasn't seen the kind of resources you have at your disposal, or your skill at planning a campaign and carrying it through. Eventually you'll prove yourself to him, but for the moment it's not important. “Yeah, sure. What are you thinking?” Pulling out your phone, you check the time and are startled to see that he's right; the night's almost gone.

“You got no practice on you at painting a face,” Makara says, “but such I do have and can do at speed. If I'm to get back by the promised hour, best I paint you up, and you can wait to do me til the next time. Does that suit?”

It's not your favorite idea, but he seemed pretty excited about it before you flipped out and derailed everything. You're not going to wimp out and refuse at this point. “Sure. Let's do it.”

He grins at you, delighted, and all right, maybe if it makes him light up like that it's worth the discomfort. Big hands gently push you back against the pile and then he's holding those little paint pots and looking at you expectantly. Right.

Taking off your shades, you set them in your lap and close your eyes.

Like before, he puts a hand on your shoulder before touching your face, and yeah it's helpful, keeps you from tensing up as much, chills out those lethal twitch reflexes. But it weirds you right out that he _knows_ that, that he takes your instinctive reactions into account. According to everything you know about other people, being tight-strung and on a defensive hair-trigger isn't exactly typical.

...According to everything you know about humans, that is to say. Now that you think about it, maybe to a low-caste troll your reflexes just look reasonable, familiar. You're weird for your species, but for his... you might not be so abnormal.

His hands are cool, the paint slick against your skin, and he wasn't kidding about being fast: he's got your face mostly covered in a few rapid, careful strokes. There's a pause and you open your eyes long enough to see him opening the other pot, the dark grey. Then he's back to it, moving more deliberately but just as smooth and practiced.

You're trying to track the shapes his fingertips draw across your skin, but it's surprisingly difficult to turn the sensations into an image. The best you can do is that most of your face is a pale mask, with a dark streak over your mouth-- a little smile? --and dark spots around your eyes. Duh. Yes, it is in fact a clown face, well done. There are dark bits on your cheeks, too, and a dot on your nose. You are fairly certain you look like an utter idiot, but considering you signed on to be made up like some kind of clown church convert, that's hardly unexpected.

He takes a few minutes to finish, maybe touching up the outlines, maybe adding new bits, there's no way to tell. Then he closes the paint pots and drops them back in his sylladex as you open your eyes. Your face feels weird and stiff with the paint, and it's an effort not to reach up and touch-- as though you could feel out the design with your fingers. You'll just have to wait until you get to the bathroom mirror to find out what it looks like, right before you wash this nonsense off.

“I look good?” you ask.

“You look motherfucking _fine_ , brother,” he purrs, grinning again. He looks satisfied, but more than that. His eyes are warm on you, soft. “Fit to spit wicked scripture and kick up a holy ruckus.”

Not exactly frequent entries on your to-do list, but it does add up to a compliment. “Cool.”

He lifts a hand and ghosts it over your face just above the skin, tracing shapes that still refuse to resolve in your mind’s eye. His expression is intent and pleased to a disconcerting degree. You're not used to having this much approval directed at you. It's kind of… intense.

“Fit to sing out prophecy and hail down the Messiahs,” he croons, “fit to shatter bone and spill out a motherfucking rainbow, my palest diamond. Fit to stand at my side and welcome in the dark carnival with hymns of sweet glory.”

That sounded way too bloody and religious to be any kind of appropriate love poem. You're 99% positive that it wasn't properly romantic at all. You therefore have no excuse for suddenly being short of breath.

“Well, now I'm curious,” you manage, sounding nothing like the schoolgirl heroine who's just been swept off her feet in a shower of cherry petals, thanks very much. Whatever renewed dokis your heart may or may not be experiencing are nobody's business but yours.

Makara smirks at you. “Settle some patience in at you, brother, you can get your gaze on when I've taken my leave of you.”

“Right, you gotta get home a-sap.” Picking up your shades, you go to slip them on, but he opens his mouth and you catch yourself before he needs to warn you. Gotta keep those off for the moment or you'll get paint on them. “I can give you the scuttlebus fare, let's see, print you out directions to the nearest stop-- shit.” How did it take you this long to realize? “You don't have shoes.”

He laughs, a pleasant rumble like a deeply amused mountain. “So as I take care not to tread over glass shards, no issue in it. My soles are like enough to leather of themselves.”

“All right, that's fine for the trip home, but you have more shoes, right? There's all kinds of nasty shit on the ground, you can't go wandering around the city barefoot as a general habit.”

There's that warmth again in his smile, but why is he smiling? Your objections are completely reasonable. “Yeah, bro, I have ownership of a second pair. All’s well for me, no cause to trouble yourself,” he tells you gently.

Your cheeks are hot. The look he's giving you, the tone of his voice-- it's suddenly too much. Too open, too affectionate. You don't know how to handle it. Should you meet his eyes? What are you supposed to say?

“Right,” you say, somewhat at random. “‘kay. I'll just go get that stuff ready.” Sliding off the bed, you abscond.

It doesn't really work since he follows after, but he doesn't say anything, so you have a moment to compose yourself while he's not looking at your face. He wanders over to the couch while you pull up directions to the bus stop. A minute later you have the printout in hand and you're getting out money for the fare.

“Alright, bro,” you start, turning to him, and stop short. Frowning slightly, he's in the midst of working his long, twisting horns through the neck hole of the tanktop you gave him. It’s loose enough that the size of the hole isn't a problem, he just has to be careful not to snag the shirt on any of the bends… and then wrestle the shirt over the breadth of his shoulders and chest. It hung like a bag on you, but it barely fits him.

By the time he's got it all the way on it's skintight to say the least. Getting it off again will probably do it in entirely, but it'll do for the trip back to his place. There's nothing you can do about the lack of shoes, though, and it fucking bugs you.

“Here,” you say, and hand over money and directions. He glances over the printout, nods and folds it into a little packet around the money.

“My thanks to you, sweet brother,” he says quietly, eyes on yours. “You turned this night from grievous trial to a blessing all unlooked for.” He reaches out for your hand and you give it to him, somewhat confused. Turning it over, he lifts it to his face, and without breaking eye contact he kisses your palm.

Okay, you are officially so far out of your depth you can't even see the shoreline. The nearest landmass is on the other side of the planet and you are doing the dog paddle over the Marianas Trench. There are no ships in sight except the one that's trying to sink you into the Bewilderment Sea. Swim harder, fucker.

You can feel a blush rising for the ninetieth time tonight, goddamnit. Ignore it, for fuck’s sake, be chill. He's leaving, you can manage suave for five fucking minutes, right?

“Hey, just glad I could help,” you say. Completely cool, calm and collected, yes. You're still courting him, you gotta make some last romantic move here but you can't just imitate what he did, what can you do--

He lets go of your hand and instead of dropping it you raise it to his face, ghost fingertips over his cheekbone, rub your thumb over his brow. “Message me. Your little bro’s got my number now. Let me know when you want to meet again.” Shit, should you have said ‘if’? No, act like it's a done deal, confidence is sexy. Platonically attractive. Whatever.

His eyelashes flutter and he leans his face into your hand just a little, then blinks several times and takes a breath. “I'll get to doing that soonest I can,” he promises, “but for now I've half the city to cover before dawn and less likelihood at it if I'm soothed near to sleep first. You keep those diamond dealing fronds full ready for next time.”

“Whoops, my bad,” you say, and feel no guilt whatsoever over taking another few seconds to quit because holy shit it is intoxicating to see how powerful an effect you have on him. Watching the effort it takes him to stop purring, stop leaning toward you, pull himself together-- is this what it feels like to be a total pale stud? When you drop your hand he blinks slowly, shakes his head once quickly and gives you a look. You smirk. “Got it. I'll keep my papping hand all rested up for you.”

“You do that, brother,” he says, and for a moment he just stares at you in silence, eyes moving across your face. You're wondering if you missed a cue or something when he shakes himself, nods at you and turns for the door.

“Have a good night,” you say. “Day. Whatever.”

“Blessed Messiahs smile on your dreams and guide you through the day's slumber, my brother.” He throws you a smile, opens the door and he's gone.

You just sort of. Stand there for a minute. You've got a lot to process.

Eventually you pull yourself out of it and go into the bathroom to check out your paint, see exactly how ridiculous he thinks you'd look as a subjugglator. You step in, look over at the mirror. Stop, eyes widening.

These days when anyone mentions subjugglators, they're as likely as not to call them murder-clowns. That's how you and most people think of them-- some bizarre mixture of dopey and deadly. The deadly is all in the behavior, though, and the paint and the rest of the costume are pretty dopey, as far as you were aware.

Maybe you need to reevaluate some of your assumptions, because you don't look dopey. You look kinda dangerous.

Your mouth has a dark streak across the upper lip like you're wearing charcoal lipstick and forgot the other half of it. The straight line of it makes even the slightest smile look like a sneer, which you notice because it seems that for some reason you're smiling right now. The dot on your nose is a diamond that should not be as reminiscent of the nose hole of a skull as it is. There are dark triangles outlining the shadows under your cheekbones, cutting onto the pale canvas of your face like blades.

And over your eyes are another pair of triangles, because your fucking palemate painted your goddamn shades right on your fucking face. More than that, he made it _work_. With the sharp dark lines cutting right over your brows, it's hard to see if you're frowning or chill. Painted like this, your whole face is harder to read than usual, the little nuances that are your expressions lost in the stark contrast of dark on light.

You're laughing, quietly, staring into the mirror at what he made of you. The face grinning back looks almost demonic, wickedly amused.

Goddamn Makara. You might just be in love with the crazy fucker.

Shaking your head, you get ready to grab a washcloth and say goodbye to the glorious greys of your subjugglator self-- and then pause, meeting your own gaze in the mirror. It's been a busy night, a lot has happened, and poor Dave missed out on everything past the opening act. Maybe you'll leave the paint be until he gets home.

You're looking forward to the look on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeee! The delightful inconnu was inspired to draw a picture of Bro in all his painted subjugglator glory! [Here](http://dandelion-in-a-top-hat.tumblr.com/post/141482161039) it is on their tumblr. It's so nice!  
> The splendid Appleskin has drawn Bro all clowned up as though out gallivanting about with Kurloz! I am impressed and delighted. [Here](http://thisisallthehattersfault.tumblr.com/post/155113658265/fit-to-sing-out-prophecy-and-hail-down-the) it is on their tumblr!


End file.
